


Vertigo

by redkeep



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Games, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Ramsay is his own warning, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 43,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5943607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redkeep/pseuds/redkeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's got blood on their hands.</p><p>— Theon's the reformed son of a Senator, looking for power and glory in all the wrong places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. yet darker

**Author's Note:**

> hi! just a couple things: this fic is going to be dealing with heavy topics, the tags will be updated as we go, ramsay is his own warning, etc. i'm not sure how much this fic is going to interest anyone who's not me, but i've already got a good chunk of it started and i'm enjoying writing it so hey, i'll give it a go. also, this fic uses a fast and loose mix of american and british politics to satisfy an idea of what modern day westerosi politics might be like, mostly because that's what i'm familiar with!
> 
> finally, i just want to recommend listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EODF0fLmMdM), especially once ramsay shows up. it's not necessary but it adds to the feeling i'm trying to create here and i think it will help to set the scene.

"This is a nice place, I'm thinking about it for my wedding."

“What wedding? It's nice for a funeral, maybe."

"Hm. There's an open bar, isn't there? I think there is."

"Asha, even if there is—”

"I know but, _shit_. This whole thing is very dull. I need a drink. I'm getting a drink."

Theon shrugs and slumps further down in his seat, playing with the cufflink of his right sleeve. The vaulted ceiling of the hall rises high above him and he watches as Asha gets up, shaking her hair and making a beeline for the bar in the far left corner.

With his sister gone, Theon finds himself lacking an ally. He and Asha aren't even that close, but when it comes to these pseudo-family appearances they stick to each other for lack of anyone better. His father is sitting gruff with the gaping wound of Asha’s absence between them, refusing to schmooze or cut into the steak on the plate in front of him.

Theon decides he's pissed off enough to light a cigarette in public. He's supposed to be reformed and all that, the latest Greyjoy success story, the unfortunate victim of an understandable breakdown so long as he doesn’t step a toe out of line from now on. But it's not like there's press in here, and he wouldn't be the only one anyway. He can see Oberyn Martell across the room, laughing uproariously and flicking ash off the end of his own cigarette.

He gets a few looks when his lighter sparks to life in his hand, but he doesn't pay them any mind. His father's face is stony and he refuses to look in Theon's direction. Instead, he stands up, buttons his suit jacket together at the waist, and makes a show of walking towards another table without looking back. He’s probably going to bore someone to death with a bill proposal.

There's a quartet playing classical music and the low din of polite political chatter, _how are your kids_  and _oh it’s so good to see you_. Theon bites at his thumbnail, brings his cigarette back up this lips, and tries to ignore the one vaguely interesting thing that's happening tonight.

Instead of looking straight ahead he turns to the right and watches Roose Bolton, who has an uncomfortable look on his face as some squeaky young staffer shuffles papers over his shoulder. Theon thinks they seated his father and Bolton at the same table as a joke. It’s possible they wanted to see if any punches get thrown. Theon would put money on Bolton if asked, mostly because he'd enjoy seeing his father get his nose broken.

Still, he's not exactly a fan of Bolton, either. He's a hardass and his tendency to use people to climb the ranks is the stuff of infamy. And then there's his son. His son is—

Roose Bolton's son is staring at him with fuck-me eyes across the table, so Theon leans over, puts his cigarette out in one of the chocolate profiteroles, and stands up, mimicking his father's own departure.

He's halfway down the hall towards the elevators when he hears someone following him. It's that _clack-clack_ sound that the heels of expensive dress shoes make against quartz hotel flooring.

Theon presses the up button three times more than is necessary and then takes a step back, standing next to Ramsay Bolton who's keeping an eye on the lit-up numbers above the elevator that are moving down as the elevator nears them.

He chooses to say nothing, instead sneaking a glance at Ramsay's suit and tie. He's wearing a Ralph Lauren charcoal slim-fit suit with a vest and a nondescript blue-grey tie. It's a nice suit, but on the cheaper end of the Ralph Lauren label, which is surprising for the son of a well-established businessman with ties to politics. Theon, himself, is wearing an Ermenigildo Zegna sharkskin suit that's a mohair and wool blend in deep blue. The mohair makes the color have a sheen that's usually impossible to get when wool is used. It looks like jumping into the ocean feels or at least that’s what Theon thinks.

Compared to him, Ramsay may as well have gotten his suit at a bargain bin sale for the homeless.

Theon snorts as the elevator doors open and he steps inside. Ramsay follows him wordlessly, which he finds funny. Theon wonders if the cheap, unfitted suit is Ramsay's punishment for being illegitimate. Probably.

He presses the button for the twelfth floor.

"Where are you going?" he asks with a fake smile, hand poised to press another button even though he already knows the answer.

“The same floor," Ramsay says, predictably. His eyes are wide and, honestly, Theon falters when he smiles. Not because it's beautiful or disarming, but because there's a sharpness to it and for a second Theon wonders if he's going to cut himself and start to bleed all over the floor of the elevator.

It's a funny little thought and he smiles to himself as he smooths one hand over the front of his suit jacket. He wonders if Asha has come back to the table yet and if she's pissed off. He doesn't think so though. She's probably by the bar, throwing back shots to hide how disgusted she is by some guy who's trying to make moves on her. Theon can relate.

"Almost there," he says, stupidly, when he sees that they're at the tenth floor. He only does it because the feeling of Ramsay's eyes on him is unnerving. All Ramsay does is blink at him in response, his smile never faltering.

Theon coughs as the doors slide open again with a _ding_. He's done this before, of course, but something about Ramsay strikes him as very different from anyone else he's ever done this with before. And Theon's heard stories around the hill that Ramsay Bolton is fucking insane, obviously, but people say that about anyone who so much as pops a pill (they’ve said it about _him_ ), so he figures there can't be much weight to it.

He steps onto the plush carpet of the hallway and turns to look over his shoulder. “Your room,” he says, “or mine?”

Ramsay’s face is covered in shadows cast by the accented lighting overhead and his smile has not faltered.

He doesn’t say anything, only inclines his head slightly to the left and then starts walking that way. Theon hesitates for a moment, and then follows him before he can turn a corner and disappear. Ramsay never looks back to make sure he’s following, and Theon swallows his own spit, trying to make some noise in the silence. He suddenly feels that they are the only two people on this entire floor, which is definitely impossible but—it doesn’t change the fact that there’s no noise aside from their footfalls and the thoughts in his own head.

He thinks of saying _hey, wait_ but, before he can, Ramsay stops in front of a door and reaches inside his suit jacket, the material creasing as he pulls his room card out from a pocket on the inside. The card slides in and the green light shines and Ramsay holds the door open for Theon, a sort of paradoxically gentleman like thing to do in this situation.

The room is dark, which Theon tells himself isn’t odd though he can’t help but feel unsettled in the darkness, nor can he help the loud thudding of his heart as the door slips shut behind him.

“Do you do this often?” he asks as Ramsay clicks on the light of a lamp, which only just lightly tinges one side of the room with a golden glow.

“Often?” Ramsay repeats, stepping back into the shadows. The room is large enough that he can do that, but it’s not as large as Theon’s own, which has separate living and sleeping areas with a French door between them and two sixty inch flat screen televisions. Ramsay’s room only has the one. One television, one bed, one step forward.

“I’ve heard—“

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of things,” Ramsay interrupts, suddenly talkative as he turns one hand up and starts to twist at something near his wrist. The strangeness of the motion makes Theon want to move backwards until he realizes that Ramsay is only undoing a cufflink. He wonders if they’re anything like his own, which are pure silver and engraved with set-in black pearl around the edges. He imagines they’re probably not, but it doesn’t give him as much satisfaction as it might have back in the elevator. “I’ve heard a lot about you, as well.”

“From your father?” Theon asks.

“Well, yes. But I think we both know better than to put much stock into what our fathers say about people they’re already predisposed to dislike, wouldn’t you agree?”

Theon thinks of all the times his father has cursed the Stark family and thrown glasses and plates in anger because of them. “I suppose.”

“Come here,” Ramsay says, having just finished taking off his other cufflink. It sounds like a command and Theon doesn’t like commands from anyone, but it’s late and his head aches and this is what he came up here for, after all. He steps forward, two steps now, into the golden light. “Come _here_ ,” Ramsay says again, with emphasis this time.

Theon steps into the darkness.

“Better,” Ramsay says, sounding pleased. “Now, what I’ve heard about you is that you’ll fuck anyone who looks at you just the right way.”

“Oh.” Theon breathes out a small laugh. Like he’s never heard that before. “Yes, well, it’s easy to do when enough people are looking at you. I guess you wouldn’t understand.”

He might have expected Ramsay to get angry at that comment some other time, but here—he’s suddenly not sure he could make him mad if he tried. There’s just that inscrutable smile twisting his lips upwards and his hand, suddenly, moving up and cupping Theon’s jaw, the movement of his thumb across Theon’s cheekbone, the drone of uncertainty in Theon’s ears like a buzzing insect that won’t go away. He’s starting to think he fucked up.

“No,” Ramsay says, “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

And then his touch on Theon’s face is gripping, moving down to his throat, pressing hard against his skin. And then he’s pushing Theon backwards and Theon is stumbling, the backs of his legs hitting the bed in a few sloppy backwards steps. And then he’s being pushed onto his back, lay down as Ramsay crawls on top of him.

The bedspread is soft as silk against his hands and he wants to raise them up and push Ramsay away but—no he doesn’t, no, not really.

Ramsay’s eyes are like twin moons, celestial beings, wide and unceasing, shining with borrowed light. His hands are on Theon’s throat and Theon can’t breathe and he’s choking, but it’s blissful in a way. He thinks that they’ll find him like this, spread eagle on a hotel bed and they’ll say, “Fuck, that’s a nice suit.” He closes his eyes. The pressure ceases and then changes. He can breathe again and he feels Ramsay pulling at his suit jacket and then— _snap_.

The button at his waist pops off and Theon’s eyes snap open to meet Ramsay’s. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ramsay hasn’t blinked once this entire time.

“Those buttons are,” his voice sounds hoarse and he clears his throat, “they’re sculpted onyx, one-of-a-kind.”

“You care a lot for the way you look, don’t you?”

Theon grits his teeth at that and decides that fine, alright, he didn’t come here to just lie here motionless. He cranes his neck up and presses his lips to Ramsay’s and suddenly he’s being consumed. Ramsay kisses him messily, hungrily, like he’s a plate of food and Ramsay hasn’t eaten in weeks. It’s okay because Theon’s starving too. He allows Ramsay to lick into his mouth and returns the action in kind, their teeth clacking together and Ramsay being the one to pull away. Theon refuses to let him, he bites down on Ramsay’s bottom lip and gets a hiss of pain in return, gets Ramsay’s eyes flashing silver at him. He gets the taste of blood.

Then there’s the soft buzz of his phone coming from the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

“Better get that,” Ramsay says, not moving, a drop of blood on his chin, his eyes wild.

“I—“

“You wouldn’t want to be rude,” Ramsay decides for him, rolling to the side and sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaves Theon laying there, breathing hard, and unsure of if he wants to see who’s calling and find out if it can be an excuse to leave or if he wants to see where this will go. The vibrating of his phone is incessant and he decides that, if nothing else, he might as well see who it is.

His phone says _Robb_ and he answers it without a moment’s hesitation once he sees that.

“Hey,” he says, sitting up and looking around the floor for his missing button.

“Theon?” Robb’s voice is heavy with tears, broken and terrifying to hear. _Shit_. “Theon, I need you.”

Theon stands up and considers going into the bathroom to escape Ramsay’s eyes and ears, but that would probably just make things even more suspicious. “What is it?” he asks, softly.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, fuck, it’s my dad, it’s—he’s— _Theon_ —he’s dead.”

The button is in Theon’s line of sight but all he can do is stare at where it landed, just underneath the dresser next to the bed. It’s dark as night and there will never be another one like it.


	2. we all yearn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral and a flash drive.
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XaSVkb_XLt4)

It’s raining and Theon is holding a black umbrella above his head as he listens to a septon speak and the _pit-pat_ of raindrops falling.

Theon personally knew Ned Stark, which makes it hard to listen to. The septon speaks of a religious man with great humility and love for those around him, and it’s all true from a certain perspective. But Theon knows that Ned Stark prayed to the Old Gods, not the new. He knows that Ned Stark was humble but _harsh_ and stubborn and that he was selective with his love. He knows that Ned Stark never liked the Greyjoys but that he loved Theon as best as he could—not quite like one of his own, but certainly like he was a person worthy of time and effort.

Theon can’t say as much for his own father and he supposes that’s why he’s here. For that and so that he can support Robb, who’s sharing his own umbrella with Bran, the two brothers standing close and strong. All the Stark children are quietly broken—it’s Catelyn Stark who’s sobs are audible. She has one gloved hand pressed to her mouth as they lower the coffin down and her other hand is holding Rickon’s. Theon wonders how much the solemn eight year old understands of what’s going on. He remembers when his brothers died, Rodrik first and Maron shortly after, and how he wasn’t sure what it meant for him or his family. Now he knows: disappointment, loss, the realization that what and who was left over would never be enough.

“May the Seven watch over us all,” the septon says, though no one here gives a shit aside from Catelyn Stark. Theon knows the Stark children will go home and think of the sacred silence of the Gods that they grew up with, and Theon himself is used to funerals where you can hear and feel the crashing of saltwater waves. Still, they all repeat the words out of respect or something like it, and then it’s over. Ned Stark will be covered in dirt that’s more like mud right now and Theon’s thoughts meander towards the dismal state of the hem of his pants.

There are Stark relatives around, all of them pausing to murmur condolences to Cat and her children, none of them paying any attention to the Greyjoy boy.

He stands in the rain, forgotten for a moment in time, and sees another person who’s been forgotten, standing alone on the other side of the grave, under the cover of a towering oak tree.

Ramsay Bolton doesn’t have an umbrella, just a long, black peacoat and eyes like daggers. He’s looking at Theon and Theon can’t help but look back.

“Hey.” Theon startles and turns to see Robb behind him, eyes red and face pale. “We’re leaving soon. Do you think I could get a ride back with you? I just need some space to breathe.”

Theon clears his throat and glances over his shoulder.

Ramsay is gone, if he was ever there.

And Robb i _s_ there, fatherless, and desperate in the rain.

“Of course,” Theon says, because even though he’s been working on saying no to Robb, now really isn’t the time.

The ride back to the Stark house is quiet and precarious. The rain is coming down in sheets and Theon’s wipers are going a mile a minute just to keep up as the sky gets darker. The septon said that surely the rain was a sign from the Seven that this was a sad day, but Theon is hoping this is just a second coming of the flood that covered the whole earth a hundred thousand years ago. He wouldn’t really mind it, if that was the case. He’s dreamt about it before, the waves pulling him under and the surface seeming so far away, the impossible gasp for air and his lungs on fire.

But right now people need him. Robb needs him. The papers need to see him arriving at the late Senator’s mansion. His father needs his name in print in a sympathetic, yet kind way. Asha needs the only brother she has left to have his life together.

The lefthand turn into the long driveway of the Senator’s mansion feels final. Probably because it’s unlikely he’ll be coming here again after tonight. The Starks have a few weeks to move out and back to their old place up north, the mid-century manor that Theon practically grew up in along with Robb, up in godswood country. Truthfully, Theon likes the old place better than the government appointed mansion, but he always suspected that Ned would be reelected next year and that this would be his home away from home for another three years at least.

Engine off, rain pounding on the windshield, silence.

“I don’t want to go in,” Robb says, finally, his voice faint. “I don’t think I can.”

“You have to,” Theon replies. He’s never been very good at reassurance. He’s better at straight facts and harsh realities. “And—I’ll be there?” It comes out as a question, because he isn’t sure how he’ll actually help.

But Robb smiles anyway. “That’s true. You will be. Theon—can I tell you something?”

 _Anything_ , Theon thinks, wanting to hear words that are summer sweet and trusting. “Sure,” he says, instead.

“I’m going to run for his seat.” Robb’s staring straight ahead, out the front window at a world that’s distorted by the torrential downpour outside.

“Your dad’s?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

Theon thinks it’s stupid and idealistic. He thinks it’s more about legacy than what Robb actually wants. They’d both agreed, long ago, that they’d never go into politics like their fathers. It was one of those conversations they had after the movie had ended and the ice cream had melted and everyone else had fallen asleep. Bran used to try and stay up with them, but he’d never make it past eleven. It was always just Robb and Theon in the end, on the black leather sectional situated in the corner of the sprawling finished basement. And Robb had said he didn’t know what to do with his life, and Theon had been so relieved because, shit, he thought he was the only one.

“I think,” he says, here and now, “that you should do whatever you think is best.”

They run to the front door and make it in relatively unscathed. Robb’s curls are wet and he shakes the water on Sansa who shrieks and hits his arm. But she smiles at him warmly in turn and pulls him away with an apology to Theon, saying her mother wants to see him. Theon is left alone in the foyer, rain dripping off the back of his coat, with no one wanting to talk to him.

He mingles with the best of them, walking between all the black-clad bodies until he finds the one he’s looking for.

Jon Snow is in the kitchen throwing back a flute of champagne, his neck exposed in the low lighting. It’s the only room on the first floor of the house that isn’t teeming with sad-acting, power-hungry people. Theon catches his eye and inclines his head towards the door that leads out of the kitchen and to the backyard. Jon seems to take pause, empty glass in hand, but nods shortly.

Theon slips outside, not worried about Jon following him immediately. The door opens to a covered patio off the back of the house from which Theon can see the lake that the house backs up to. The water looks like a gaping black hole and all of the earth smells of damp rainfall, but none of it touches him here and he has a cigarette hanging from his lips by the time he hears the door open behind him.

“Still haven’t quit that?” Jon asks, annoying as ever. He comes to stand by Theon (too close) and he’s not wearing a jacket, but he doesn’t look cold. Theon will never understand how he does that.

“I decided I’m allowed to have one thing,” Theon replies, flicking ash so it lands close to Jon’s shoe. “This is my one thing.”

“I’m sure. But, well—shitty circumstances aside. How have you been?”

Theon shrugs, not sure why they’re bothering with formalities. “Bored, but the press likes me significantly more lately. They love a good reform story and mine’s one of the best. And you?”

“Oh, you know. Trying to keep my name out there, but it’s kind of hard when the editor keeps giving me puff shit. I’ve done three stories this week about dogs.” He holds up three fingers and shoves them in Theon’s face for emphasis. “ _Three_.”

“I thought you liked dogs.”

“Ha. I liked  _my_ dog, big difference, I never had to write columns about him. Now, come on, tell me you’ve got something.”

Theon pauses, inhales, then exhales smoke. Shit. This is too perfect, but he has to play this just right.

“Look, there’s no guarantee and I’ll have to run it by him first, but—Robb’s planning to run for dad’s seat.” Jon’s eyes are wide and Theon knows he’s itching to pull his phone out and tell the whole world. Fucking idiot. “Don’t even think about it. You don’t say fuck all about it until I give the word, Snow. Don’t screw me on this. Robb will never trust me again if this gets leaked—“

“Fuck! Okay! Chill out, honestly. It’s just, if I can get some sort of exclusive on this you don’t even _know_ what that will do for me. It’ll be bye-bye fluffy animal bullshit and hello breaking political news. You’ve got to make this happen. Please tell me I didn’t fuck you for nothing.”

“You fucked me for a lot of reasons, but let’s not get into that. I’m serious right now and I need you to listen.” Theon does his best not to look Jon in the eyes when they talk. He’s scary pretty and good at getting what he wants when he whines. Theon knows this better than most people, unfortunately. “You have to do me a favor, too.”

Jon raises his eyebrows and Theon knows what he’s expecting, but he doesn’t have time for that. He has a flight in a few hours and he doesn’t feel like catching hell for missing it just for a momentarily good fuck that he’ll regret later on. That’s something he would have done without thinking a few years ago, it’s not supposed to be something he’d do now. He’s playing a whole different game this time.

“I need information on Ramsay Bolton.”

 

* * *

  

The note is enclosed in a nondescript manila envelope that he finds in-between bills and coupon booklets in his mail one morning with his name scrawled on the front in permanent marker. It’s not exactly subtle, but then again subtle isn’t much use to him right now.

_T —_

_This is some fucked up shit. This goes all the way up and I am not naming names here. I’ve put a flash drive in the envelope of documents I found. I know you’ll think I’m being dramatic but burn this fucking note, burn the envelope, burn the flash drive once you have the files on a secure server. Be warned: there are pictures._

_— J_

Theon pulls the flash drive out of the envelope. It’s small and black and it’s hard to believe there’s anything sinister contained within. He takes it to his bedroom along with his half-gone, half-cold coffee and takes his sweet time getting his laptop started up. He has the news on in the background, the sound drifting in from the living room, some report about people dying in some foreign country. It’s very depressing, but he likes to keep up with current events or something like that.

The flash drive is labelled as NO NAME when he pulls it up on his laptop, which means nothing but still gives him a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Theon hesitates a few seconds before clicking on it. When he does a new window pops up with a handful of sequentially named .pdf files. It all looks very harmless and neat. He glances at Jon’s note again, eyes fixating on _goes all the way up_ and wonders what that means before deciding that there’s only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's day! a few things real quick: for the sake of simplicity there’s no age requirement for holding office in modern westeros here (you just have to be 18+), which is one element here that's from british politics rather than american politics. second, there will be more on jon's relationship with the starks in this au later on, as i know it's pretty vague at the moment. finally, feel free to leave feedback, i love hearing what people think!!! (and thank you for the comments so far!)


	3. people like me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The creaking sound of the leather gloves worn by the person who's following you.
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnFBU6IneyI)

Theon crosses his legs. He’s wearing a Burberry trim fit wool and cashmere blend suit, with flat-front trousers and two button closure on the jacket, all of it in dark grey. The tailor said it made his eyes pop. Evidently, the secretary sitting across the room from him agrees, because she keeps glancing up, meeting his eyes, and then looking away with a flush on her cheeks. It’s too easy sometimes.

After twenty minutes of waiting, he’s prepared to get up and hover near her. It will be a subtle suggestion that she remind her employer that he’s here to see him, not to look at his poorly decorated waiting room. Honestly, a Monet replica? It’s like he doesn’t even care about keeping up appearances. But just as he’s about to smooth his tie down (Dornish silk, ocean blue with a silver tie clip) the door to the secretary’s right opens and there’s Roose Bolton, motioning for him to enter his office.

Theon has been preparing for this for a week now, ever since his father got the call and then passed the burden onto him. He’s ready to be affable and well-versed, all while holding fast to the message he’s here to send. He’s ready to do this and he refuses to be deterred by Bolton’s emotionless facial expression as they shake hands, prepared to compliment his office right up until the second he sets foot in it.

Ramsay Bolton is sitting in a chair in the corner with a glass of what looks to be brandy balanced on his knee. He’s wearing that same ill-fitting suit from the hotel and that same inscrutable smile on his face. It makes Theon’s own smile slide right off his mouth and onto the floor, a sopping, soggy mess. It’s going to leave a stain.

Roose clears his throat, closing the door behind them and heading to his desk on the other end of the room. “Ramsay tells me the two of you have spoken before. Forgive me for not letting you know he would be here. It was a last minute decision on my part.”

“It’s no problem,” Theon says, wishing he could claw either his or Ramsay’s eyes out. “We met, ah, at the state dinner last month. We shared some drinks in Ramsay’s hotel room and talked for quite a while.”

“Interesting, as I’ve never known Ramsay to do much talking with anyone he brings back to his hotel rooms. But it’s no matter. We’re all here now. Though I must say, it's not that I don’t respect you Theon...but I was hoping for your father’s presence today.”

“Oh, I know. He wanted to come, but—“

“Spare me the reasoning,” Roose waves a hand in the air, sitting back in his chair. It’s large and brown and made of creaking leather, some dead thing. The whole of the room is dimly lit and dark, from the wood to the furniture to the people. Theon can hardly believe that Ramsay hasn’t said a word yet. “I realize that your father would rather spend his time with a pack of bloodthirsty wolves than he would sit down and talk with me about politics.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mr. Bolton. My father would prefer the wolves to sitting down and talking about politics with _anyone_ , trust me.”

Roose lets out a humorless laugh. “I want to say you’re your father’s son, but I don’t think it would be amiss to say you’ve learned more from the Starks than from the Greyjoys, all things said.”

Theon considers the words, glances at Ramsay as he sips at his drink, and then looks back to Roose. “All things said? Yes, that’s fair.”

“Then perhaps I’m glad your father sent you instead of coming himself.”

“And why would that be?”

Roose Bolton places his hands flat on the top of his desk and then stands. The leather of his chair creaks when it’s relieved of him. Ramsay is humming something in the background, a sort of vocal drumroll.

“I’m going to run for Ned Stark’s seat in the Keep.”

Theon is hardly shocked by the words, he’s just surprised that they’re being said directly to him behind closed doors. He’s not sure what to say, but it doesn’t really matter, because Roose continues to talk.

“The North needs someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing and how to play the game. There’s a reason not one of Stark’s proposed bills made it out of committee. He was an idealist to a disgusting fault, unwilling to compromise at the expense of his own people.”

“And now he’s dead,” Ramsay says. Theon turns to see him raising his glass and then downing the rest of the alcohol within.

“And now he’s dead,” Roose echoes. “Tell me, Theon, why do you think he’s dead?”

“It—he was in a car accident, jackknifed by a semi—“

Ramsay laughs, a cold, harsh sound, and Theon refuses to look back at him again.

“A tragic accident plays better with the press, it’s true,” Roose says, like admitting that is a great concession on his part. “But then why isn’t his driver in the hospital? Surely if Stark died on impact, his driver would at least be injured?”

“It was—“

“A miracle!” Ramsay crows from behind him. _Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back_.

“Ramsay,” Roose says, his voice a stern warning. “But...I would wager a guess that that’s what you were going to say, Theon. Quite a miracle, wasn’t it, that neither Ned Stark’s driver nor the driver of the semi-truck were harmed in an accident that violently ripped the late Senator from the realm of the living.”

“So,” Theon hurries to speak, unwilling to be interrupted this time, “what are you trying to say, then? That his death wasn’t an accident? This isn’t _The_ fucking _Sopranos_. Ned Stark was a good man and—you’re right, you know, he wasn’t getting anything done in the Keep. How would his death possibly benefit anyone? Aside from you, I mean.”

“Oh, because I’m planning to run for his seat, you mean? Isn’t his son going to do the same?”

“How do—“

“The narrative writes itself, Theon. Everyone loves a sob story and if Robb Stark ends up taking over his father’s seat then there’s your proverbial happy ending. But we cannot let that happen.”

“ _We_?” Theon laughs and the sound is more nervous than he’d like it to be. “I’ll have you know that not only is Robb my best friend, he’ll also be an amazing leader.”

“Will he? Think long and hard about that, Theon. Ask yourself what experience he has, what he’s ever really done with his life aside from being born.”

Theon swallows, hard. It’s not a completely untrue charge. Robb’s done well for himself, went to law school, works in a firm at a low level because he refused to let his name buy him a spot somewhere in the upper echelons without it being earned. But right now that seems more like a fault than a virtue. If he was a partner somewhere, then maybe… But instead, Theon finds himself thinking that Roose is right in the worst sort of way. Robb has emotions and passion on his side, but it’s far too easy to see how that might all fall apart once a spotlight is bearing down on him.

“I think he’s getting it,” Ramsay singsongs from the back of the room. Theon wants to tell him to shut up, but he can’t.

“He will make a fool out of himself,” Roose says in that slow, pointed way of his, making each word stick into Theon’s skin like a knife, drawing blood.

“He doesn’t—he’s never even wanted to be a politician,” Theon vomits out, the taste of bile and regret in his throat.

Roose Bolton is smiling and that just doesn’t bode well. “I thought as much. So Theon, why don’t we save your friend the embarrassment. Why don’t we stop him from serving a lifetime in a role he never wanted to inherit. And why don’t we show your father that you’re his son and not Ned Stark’s. That he still has a son worth supporting.”

It sounds _good_ and Theon wonders if he’s really that obvious. If his wants and needs are written across his face. He supposes anyone who’s ever read a few articles about the past few years of his life could probably surmise that he’s looking for some sort of validation, that he’s never had his father’s approval, that he’s desperate for it. Theon knows he’s being played here, that the Boltons have set out a well-baited trap and that he’s falling for it like some stupid forest animal that doesn’t know what’s best for itself. He can’t say no, but he can’t say yes either, and Roose seems to see this.

“I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, coming to the other side of the desk. Theon stands up, pulling down on his suit jacket self-consciously. He hopes Roose notices the fine stitching on the lapels and the interwoven wool and cashmere fibers that give the whole suit a distinct coloration. Theon personally thinks it’s very impressive. “Let’s say a week, alright?” Theon nods and has his hand shaken without much say in the matter. “For now—Ramsay? Why don’t you show Theon out to his car. I’ll call and have the valet bring it around.”

“Thank you,” Theon says, because what else is he supposed to say?

“There’s a good boy,” Roose says, clapping him on the shoulder.

The whole thing is surreal, right down to following Ramsay out of the office and into the hallway outside of the waiting room. Roose Bolton’s oil refineries stretch all across the northeast coast and his business’ offices are on the seventeenth floor of the building they’re in, looking down at the city from a great height. Theon has no doubt that Roose has enough money to self-finance his campaign. He just needs more friends in the political sphere, and it makes sense that he reached out to Theon’s father as his first ally, considering his father's rocky history with the Starks. But this was not how Theon expected things to go. He had thought Roose would be cagey with him and dance around the issue, not that he’d come straight out with his plan. And for Ramsay to be there—that didn’t help.

“Isn’t this familiar!” Speak of the devil. They’re standing in front of the elevators, waiting for one to make its way up to them. “Are you sure you don’t want to get a drink? There’s a lovely bar in the lobby, very classy. You’d fit right in, I imagine.”

Theon shakes his head. “I have to get going, I’ve got someone else to meet and a flight tomorrow morning.” He has no one else to meet and his flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. The elevator doors slide open silently.

“That’s a shame.”

“It—yeah. It is. Maybe…another time.”

Ramsay smiles at that and Theon tries to smile in return.

They ride down to the lobby in silence and Theon’s car, a black BMW M6 Coupe, is already waiting for him. He gets in and waves to Ramsay before leaving, which feels stupid but also necessary for some sense of normalcy in the situation. He makes it as far as the auxiliary parking lot and pulls into an empty spot near the side of building, turning the car off and leaning over the steering wheel. He closes his eyes shut and slams his fist against the console—once, twice, three times, and then there’s a knock against the window, the rap of knuckles. Theon opens his eyes and turns his head, slowly.

Ramsay stands there smiling, his bad suit in sharp contrast with his facial features, which look terribly divine when backlit by the outdoor light. Theon thinks that he looks like angels must do.

Theon rolls down the window a few inches and Ramsay drops something in, onto his lap. It’s his silver tie clip, with a piece of paper in between.

“You’ve really got to start being more careful with your things,” Ramsay says. “Drive safely, Theon.”

Theon watches him walk back inside the building and then scrambles to look at the paper. His hands are shaking.

It’s a phone number.


	4. like violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The life of the political party.
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VBi74fo5qs8)

It’s Asha’s twenty-seventh birthday party so of course no one’s seen her since the party started.

“Where’s your sister?” Theon keeps getting asked by relatives he forgot he had and decaying old women and disgusting men who almost certainly want to fuck Asha but would never get a chance.

“I don’t know,” he says to all of them. No one seems to care, his father included. There’s endless champagne and an open bar and enough food to feed everyone in Pyke for three months, so of course everything that’s leftover will be in the garbage by the morning. A rotting, stinking pile in the morning sun, covered in flies. He’s seen it before.

Theon sucks on an ice cube and enjoys the biting cold against the inside of his mouth until he sees the Boltons across the room, Roose with his young, fat bride and Ramsay looking deceptively normal from afar. Theon spits the ice back into his glass, puts the glass on the table, and heads to the stairs.

His old bedroom is the second room on the left. It's a workout room slash office space now, the walls painted an inoffensive beige. He sits sideways on one of the exercise bikes, television remote in hand, and turns on the big screen that’s hanging in front of the treadmill. Thank fuck, there’s a college football game on. He doesn’t even really like football, but it’s a relief to have something so mindless in front of him and he falls back, listless as he tries to put together where things currently stand. One team is up by ten points and a penalty has just been called on the wide receiver.

“Theon?”

He hopes to his God that it’s some girl he’s never met in a barely-there dress, with long, dark hair. But of course it’s not. It’s Ramsay Bolton.

“Hi,” Theon says, like this is normal. Like they’re friends. Like he doesn’t know what Ramsay does in his spare time. He looks towards the doorway and sees Ramsay with his sleeves rolled up and blood up to his elbows thick as paint, a maniacal glint in his eyes. Theon blinks. Ramsay’s wool Balmain blazer covers his arms, all the way down to the buttoned cuffs. Theon shifts self-consciously in his own clothes. He feels overdressed or maybe underdressed. He wasn’t sure what to wear and settled on artificially worn jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a hand waxed Belstaff leather jacket in navy. He thinks he looks good and of course his father disagrees, but the channel quilting on the shoulders and elbows is flawless and the color is a good contrast with the black of his hair. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Ramsay says, coming to stand by him.

“How do I look?” Theon isn’t sure why he asks it—maybe because he knows no one else will tell him the truth.

“Stand up,” Ramsay says and it’s an order. Theon flashes back to that hotel room, which he sometimes desperately wishes he was back in. He’d never tell anyone that, not even Ramsay, not even himself. But, fuck. He stands up, feeling self-conscious. "You've looked better.”

Theon raises an eyebrow. He can’t tell if Ramsay is bullshitting him or not. He decides to scoff and look away. “I’m not good at dressing down.”

“I have to say, I thought you’d be better at the whole party thing.”

It’s a quiet jab but a playful one, maybe. Theon wonders how hard or easy it would be to get Ramsay to fuck him on the couch in the corner.

“Not these kinds of parties. I don’t do well at anything that involves my family. That and I think you’re the first person I’ve talked to tonight who hasn’t asked me where my sister is.”

“Why should I care where she is?”

“Well, it _is_ her party. I’d imagine that’s got something to do with it.”

Ramsay has nothing to say to that. He just sits down in one of the plush arm chairs like he’s testing it, like he’s never sat in a chair before. “Is there anything to drink up here?”

“Actually, yeah.”

Theon goes to the closet that’s next to the desk in the back of the room. He’s been looking for an excuse to since he came up here. All that’s in there is busted exercise equipment and an old filing cabinet that you have drag to the side before pushing back a broken slat in the back of the wall, and there it is. The paper bag that’s got rum, cognac, and vodka, along with four shot glasses. One of the glasses is broken in shards and all the bottles have some dust on the top, but they only need two. He sets the bottles out on the desk, in front of the powered down computer monitor.

“Vodka tonic,” Ramsay says. He’s got his legs crossed and he’s sitting back in the armchair. Theon wants to climb on his lap. He has this same feeling, deep in his stomach, when he's in a car going seventy miles an hour and he gets the urge to open the door and jump out onto the highway.

He clears his throat. “I don’t have any tonic water. Try again.”

“Make sure you do next time. Fine. Give me some Hennessy.”

No please, nothing, just an expectation and a shift to uncross his legs and spread them wide on a chair Theon’s pretty sure they’ve owned since before his mom went batshit insane. He gives Ramsay his cognac and pours some for himself. Then some rum—too much rum, way too much. The football game on tv is something to comment on, though it’s clear neither of them particularly care about it and the conversation soon turns to something more mutually interesting.

“Where’s your plus one?”

“Do you mean Robb? Robb is—not here. He’s been making public appearances up north. He’s announcing his run next week.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he’s—we’ve set up an interview with the _Herald_ for him. Something to introduce him to the public.”

“And what about for my father?”

Theon drains the rest of his glass, the last drops falling into his mouth. He needs to be fucking smashed for this conversation and he's barely halfway there. “I just told you. Robb’s announcing next week, on Wednesday. Your father should do the same a few days before.”

Ramsay blinks at him and then there’s the slow burn of a smile, like flames catching on the edge of dry paper. “Oh. And I thought you weren’t interested in our proposition.”

“Have you ever, uh—wanted to do something without knowing why? Or. Known why but not wanted to admit it?”

Ramsay is running his finger over the rim of his glass. “No.”

“Ha. I should have figured you wouldn’t have, but. That’s my position.” Theon pours himself some more rum, but doesn’t drink it. “I don’t want Robb to do this, but all my reasons are pretty fucking selfish. And then comes your father, making it sound like I’d be a saint to stop him. But, let’s face it, he’s just trying to use me as means to his own ends. I know that. But if I play this bullshit double agent role, everyone will get what they want.”

“Except your precious Robb,” Ramsay says, with just a hint of contempt.

“Except Robb,” Theon agrees, deciding to ignore the tone of voice and that particular choice of words. “But he’d never know it.”

“But you would,” Ramsay points out.

“Shit, do you want me to help your father or not?”

Ramsay shrugs. “I don’t play the politics game very well. I'm far too honest.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s the problem, exactly,” Theon says. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears. He’s been able to hear the din of the party downstairs all this time up until now. Suddenly everything is quiet. Ramsay’s smiling like a kid who’s seeing a small animal being dissected for the first time, peeling back layers of skin to expose all the vulnerabilities hidden within.

“What do you mean by _that_?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Nothing.” Theon looks down at the liquid in his glass. His stomach suddenly feels empty—no, not empty. Full, but not of anything it should be full of. Bugs, maybe, crawling on the lining of his stomach. Spiders and flies, arachnids and insects of all kinds. Their skinny, spindly legs inside of him, touching his insides, ready to tear him apart.

“Oh, I highly doubt that, Theon. Come here.”

Theon can’t help but do it. The door is wide open and he halfway hopes someone is watching from the hallway. Watching him walk towards Ramsay Bolton, watching Ramsay Bolton pull on one of the zippers of his jacket.

“How much did this cost?”

“I don’t know. A thousand, two thousand—“

“And where was it made?”

“Yi Ti. It’s handmade. I have to send it to a professional leather cleaner to get it cleaned. I’ve only worn it twice.”

“I don’t like it.”

“What?”

“Never wear it again.”

“I’m not going to just _never_ wear it because you say not to.”

Ramsay grabs his face, pulls him down, his fingers gripping hard at Theon’s jaw. He’s still got that empty glass in his other hand. “Never. Wear it. Again.”

“What the _fuck_!” Ramsay lets go of his face and Theon stumbles backwards, rum sloshing out of the glass in his hand and rubbing at his jaw. “Honestly, who do you think you _are_?”

“Take it off.”

“ _What_?”

Theon drops his glass to the ground and he watches the rum spill onto the carpet. What he wants to ask is _why_ because he wants Ramsay to give him a reason worth following his orders for. He’s itching to do exactly what he’s been told, equal parts disgusted and excited about the idea that anyone could walk in. His sister, his father, Ramsay’s father, some old lady who would be scandalized. Fuck.

“You heard me,” Ramsay says, sitting back again and, shit. Those thighs.

Theon swallows and pulls at the zipper on the jacket. Ramsay’s eyes lock onto his. It feels like a dare and, okay. Theon can work with that. Zipper halfway down, then all the way. “Off,” Ramsay repeats, like Theon needs to be reminded. He shrugs the jacket off his shoulders and Ramsay tuts. “Slower, Theon,” he says, almost gently. So Theon moves slower, inching the leather sleeves off his arms until it drops to the floor. He feels naked even though he’s still fully dressed. It must be the way Ramsay’s eyes rake over him, like Theon is something he wants to devour. And, fuck, but Theon wants to be devoured. He always has.

“You never called me,” Ramsay says, his voice quiet but accusing.

“It was—I’ve been busy, but I’m, ah. Sorry?”

“That’s right. You are. Very sorry.” Ramsay motions for him to move closer and he does. Ramsay reaches a hand out and puts it on Theon’s hip, squeezes there. Ramsay looks into his eyes, pins him down like a monarch butterfly on display. “You’ll call me tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay.” Theon’s mouth is dry, a desert, and for some reason he feels like he has to ask Ramsay if he can have something to drink, which is ridiculous. He goes to reach out and touch Ramsay, somewhere, anywhere, but Ramsay grips his hip even harder. Bruising. Theon’s jaw still hurts and he realizes with startling clarity that he’s half-hard. “Can we—can I?”

“Hm?” Ramsay pulls him closer, so Theon’s legs are touching his. “Say what you mean. Use your words.”

Theon wants to vomit all over the room.

“Let me,” he says, biting at his bottom lip and falling to his knees. Ramsay’s hand slips away from his hip and then it’s in his hair. Theon leans into the touch. It’s comforting in the way a loose tooth is, the feeling of tounging at the exposed gums underneath, the copper taste of blood.

“Let you what?”

Theon doesn’t know why he wants this so much. It’s not like every other person he’s been with has been gentle, but no one’s been like this. He’s fucked in conference rooms, on hospital beds, in bathroom stalls that didn’t have doors. Somehow this is where he feels most exposed though. Maybe it’s the wide open door, maybe it’s the television that’s on in the background, maybe it’s the way Ramsay’s looking at him with those eyes. He’s not sure, but he wants this in a way that’s starkly different than the ways in which he’s wanted things before. It’s not a matter of more, it’s a matter of _this_.

“Let me—no, will you,” he tries to think of a way to say it that lines up with the way Ramsay’s done things so far. “Will you fuck my mouth?”

“Oh,” Ramsay says, eyes shining. “You know what? I think I will.”

Theon exhales quietly and watches as Ramsay lifts his hips up from the seat of the chair. He’s never been particularly fond of sucking cock, but his jaw still aches and he’s obsessed with the feeling of it for reasons he can’t afford to pinpoint right now. He licks his lips as Ramsay undoes the button of his pants (Fitzgerald Fit trousers in a deep grey which Theon suspects are from Brooks Brothers, pure wool, he wants to lick the inseam but he feels like that would be too desperate a move) and slides the zipper down. Theon moves to help speed the process up, thinking that he’ll slip the trousers down and over Ramsay’s thighs.

“Stop,” Ramsay says, like he’s scolding a child. “Patience.” Two words Theon hates to hear, but he sits still nonetheless.

Ramsay peels the trousers off inch by inch. The waistband of his boxer briefs shows and it says _Calvin Klein Calvin Klein Calvin Klein_ like a mantra. It takes years before Ramsay’s cock is free. Everyone downstairs must be dust by now, the whole of the world must be gone, and Theon only has eyes for hard, pink flesh, exposed and uncut. It’s all that’s left: Ramsay’s hand on the nape of his neck, guiding him close, saying, “I’ll kill you if you bite me.”

Theon takes the head into his mouth, feels the weight on his tongue like he’s considering it. Ramsay’s hand pushes up into his hair and he takes more in, his lips stretched wide. Ramsay’s cock isn’t huge or small—it’s just sort of _right_. Perfectly heavy and solid in his mouth, he can feel it against the insides of his cheeks when he hollows them out. And he takes more in and he’s, fuck, he’s choking. He can feel the head of Ramsay’s cock in the back of his throat now, uncomfortably _there_. The pain in his jaw is skyrocketing and then Ramsay does what he asked him to do. He pulls out an inch, two, and then slams back in and there are tears in the corners of Theon’s eyes. Spit coming out of his mouth, coating his lips, obscene. And he almost bites down without thinking about it. He only just stops himself.

His sounds are muffled, broken moans, wondering _why does this feel so good, why does this feel so bad_? He has one hand on one of Ramsay’s knees and he reaches the other up to touch the base of Ramsay’s cock, but Ramsay swats it away.

“No,” he says, and Theon realizes that Ramsay’s barely made a sound this entire time. His voice sounds a little strained, but that’s it. Theon wonders if he has to be bleeding to get Ramsay going. He’s thinking this, closing his eyes as he feels something that comes terrifyingly close to defeat, and then there’s a flash, the sound of a shutter. His eyes fly open and Ramsay’s got his cell phone out. Another flash, another shutterbug sound. Theon blinks away the bright lights and feels woozy. He’s not sure what to do about what just happened, if anything, so he just closes his eyes again.

He’s still choking, mouth stuffed full, but the movements are less erratic now. Ramsay has settled into a rhythm. One, two, moving out, slight relief as he tenses for what’s coming next, three, four, Ramsay slams back into his mouth. Theon wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a bruise at the back of his throat by now and, _ah_. Warm, hot, disgusting and wet, the taste of cum down his throat. He’s coughing and hacking and Ramsay has fallen back in the chair, breathing hard. Theon falls to the floor on all fours. The front of his jeans are sticky and he’s not even sure when he came.

Maybe it was when the pictures were taken.

Ramsay’s already standing up, tucking himself back into his boxer briefs and zipping his trousers up. Theon’s still on the floor.

“What was,” he coughs, his throat feels raw, like a steak that’s been cut into and is bleeding all over the stark white dinner plates. “What was _that_?”

“Hmmm?”

“The pictures. What was—that about?”

Ramsay smiles. He’s halfway to the doorway. Aside from his slightly flushed cheeks he looks no worse for the wear. Theon can’t say the same for himself. He must smell like cum and sex. He’s fairly sure Ramsay still smells of Clive Christian, with notes of grapefruit, lime, and mandarin layered over a base of powdery musk. That, and the faint hint of Theon’s mouth on him.

“Insurance,” Ramsay says, his smile wide.

He leaves the room and Theon spits up blood into the palm of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let the games begin...? ha...anyway, thanks for the feedback so far, it's always appreciated and everyone who's commented has been really sweet! ♡


	5. hold back all my dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two dates, more or less.

Slow tempo, mild music plays over the speakers as Theon waits for an inept barista to add the correct amount of espresso to his chai latte. He doesn’t really like chai lattes at all, but it’s what he always orders because it’s what everyone else orders and it’s what’s expected of him. He’d much rather have something with an actual bite to it and if it wasn’t eleven o’clock in the morning he’d probably be in a bar right now with the soles of his shoes sticking to the grimy floor beneath them.

Instead, he gets his drink handed to him and grimaces at the messily scrawled _Grayjoy_ on the side of the cup. Just for that, he’s not tipping.

He finds Jon near the back of the shop, looking grim and exhausted, his pale skin illuminated ghoulishly in the glow of his laptop. He’s all white and black, no in-between and, in Theon’s opinion, he looks very punchable. There are about a million places Theon would rather be right now. His own funeral, for instance. But this is a necessary think tank sort of meeting. Robb’s speaking in front of a crowd in his hometown right about now, kissing babies on the head and all that shit, but here. Here in the back of a shitty, crowded coffee shop. This is where the real magic is happening.

“You know,” Jon says as Theon pulls out a chair to sit across from him, “you didn’t have to stay up there and _watch_ the guy make your coffee.”

“Seriously? Can you even imagine what would happen if I wasn’t watching? Spit is what. He would have _spit_ in my fucking drink.”

“Well maybe next time don’t yell at someone because they only put three shots of espresso in your drink.”

“Oh, right, because I shouldn’t get what I paid for or anything. And I didn’t yell, stop being dramatic. I was perfectly polite, but get this: he _still_ spelled my name wrong.”

Jon leans over and eyes the side of Theon’s cup. He snorts. “Whatever. Moving on to the matter at hand. How fucked up is this Bolton thing?”

Theon pauses before pulling his drink back towards him. How he handles this is going to set the stage for how everything goes down from now on. If there’s one player in this game he’s really worried about on Robb’s side, it’s Jon. Jon’s the only one with nothing to lose either way, and he’s smarter than his looks would imply. Mopier, too, but that’s a moot point in the current situation.

“Is it really that fucked up?” Theon asks, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. From what my father’s told me, Bolton’s had his eye on Ned Stark’s seat for years now. Apparently he’s good at biding his time.”

“That’s another thing. Your father.” Jon’s typing something up and Theon wishes he could see what it is. Moving now would look too conspicuous, though. Better to act unperturbed by it. He’s probably just sending some sloppy Facebook message to some girl he fucked last weekend. Jon’s always doing that, getting all torn up inside over one night stands. Theon would never.

“My father?”

“It’s no secret that he wasn’t exactly Ned Stark’s biggest fan. And Bolton’s far more likely to be his ally than Robb is. Bolton doesn’t make public contributions, but it’s a matter of public record that he’s given to your father’s campaigns through other channels. That’s a direct connection.”

“Point taken.” Theon considers his words carefully and decides on laying his hand bare. It will be too obvious that he’s not being truthful if he doesn’t. “I don’t know how involved my father is in all of this. It’s sort of an enemy of my enemy thing. He’s never been fond of Bolton as a person, but I could see him favoring him over Robb for a lot of reasons. The money certainly doesn’t hurt.”

“So we’re looking at a possible endorsement from your father against your best friend who’s campaign you’re publicly a part of.”

“No! Well, maybe.”

“God, Theon!”

“I can’t control what he does, alright?” Theon hisses, leaning across the table, halfway tempted to slam Jon’s laptop shut. He can feel the eyes of other people on them. This is why he didn’t want to meet in public, but Jon had insisted. “You think my father doesn’t like the Starks? He doesn’t like the Boltons? Fuck that. He doesn’t like _me_.”

“Whoa. Okay. Deep breaths,” Jon says, close enough to being patronizing about it that Theon sneers at him in response. “I know you’ve got, uh, family issues—“

“Me? _I’ve_ got family issues?” Theon forces a shaky laugh and is relieved that it comes out more confidently than he feels. It’s a cold and harsh sound and he gets a rush from hearing it, the high he gets when he acts meaner than he actually is. “Ned Stark allowed you to be a charity case, he let you call yourself a distant relative. Everything you have is because he pitied you.”

“Right, and being a political liability is so much better?” Theon knows he’s touched a nerve because Jon has one hand curled into a fist. Theon can practically feel phantom nails digging into his skin. “At least I’m fucking over it. I’ve moved on and, honest to God, I hope you do too, one day. For now, let’s just drop it. This is getting us nowhere.”

Theon nods, settling back in his chair with only a slight bit of regret and putting a hand to his deceptively casual Balmain hooded sweatshirt. The cotton-jersey blend breathes nicely, making it a comfortable, yet effortlessly stylish look for days like today when he’s doing his best not to slit Jon Snow’s throat in a coffee shop. The good news is, of course, that if he succumbs to the pressure, the blood stains will be hard to see on the black fabric. He’s truly thought of everything.

“What about the Westerling girl?” Jon asks, turning his laptop sideways so that Theon can see the screen as well. He’s pulled up some article or another that has a headline screaming about Robb’s love life or lack thereof.

“She’s a nobody, really, but she has a good name. Her family’s old money, the kind that’s dried up over the years, but they’re still well-liked.” Theon tilts his head and squints. “That picture of him is really shit, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm. Well, I think it’d better his chances if he had a steady relationship.”

“I don’t know. Part of his charm is his availability. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, if you’re a fifteen year old girl, maybe. But fifteen year old girls can’t vote. We need old people to like him. Like, really fucking old people. And they’re going to want him to be committed to someone with an intent to marry.”

“I know you’re right but, shit, I’m glad it’s not me.” Theon shudders at the idea. He’d be ripped apart, laid bare for the world to see. He’s already had a taste of that, and it was bitter in the worst way. “I still can’t believe he’s doing this.”

Jon, pulling his laptop back to himself, mumbles in agreement. There’s the quiet sound of his hands flying across the keyboard and Theon downs the last half of his coffee before Jon speaks again. Both the latte and the sound of Jon’s voice make him feel sick to his stomach.

“You, uh. You got that envelope I sent you a couple weeks ago, right?”

“Yes.” Theon picks at the lid of his cup with the fingernail of his index finger. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I want to say that’s fine but, Theon. What I found. I’m kind of freaking out about it, myself.”

“Yeah, well. Let’s meet somewhere private next time, then. I’m not talking about it here.” Theon slides his eyes back up to Jon and sees a weird amount of concern in his eyes. “I’m serious. If anyone overheard us—“

“I know.” Hands up, Jon surrenders as Theon stands up. “It was stupid of me to ask. Another time, alright?”

“Maybe.”

Theon turns and leaves without looking back. Once he’s outside he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts until he finds the one he’s looking for and presses _Call_. He walks down the sidewalk, engulfed in throngs of people, invisible amongst them all.

“Hello?”

Theon smiles sickly at the sound of Ramsay’s voice and there’s the feeling of something insidious, something hideous, crawling up the knobs of his spine.

 

* * *

 

 

A table for two in the back of a restaurant. Theon unfolds the cloth napkin that was tucked under his so-far empty plate and places it on his lap.  There’s no reason to risk spilling anything on his dark grey Rag & Bone double-faced cotton plisse Recruit trousers, though he feels a little ridiculous with Ramsay’s eyes on him. He clears his throat.

“So, this feels a little backwards, huh?”

“I’m not really sure what kind of forwards we’re talking about,” Ramsay says, surprisingly cordial. “Are you sure it’s alright for us to be seen in public together? I’ve never been in the tabloids before, but this feels like it could be the first time.”

“No—there’s only a story if we hide it and it comes out later on. Us meeting in public is barely a story. it’s just the surrogates of two competing campaigns having a meeting on neutral ground. Shit. You really aren’t good at politics, are you?”

Ramsay shrugs and Theon thinks about how criminally good he looks in the low lighting. Both of them must, honestly. It’s the sort of moment he wishes he could have someone capture from a short distance. With a wide lens and a crisp focus on the two of them, he thinks it would make a particularly stunning shot, though a part of him also suspects he would be able to see Ramsay holding a shining, sharp knife just under the table cloth. But that’s part of the beauty of the situation, in his opinion.

They order their food, Szechuan pepper cured salmon with orange chili noodles and sweet mustard for Theon and grilled beef tenderloin with boulangère potatoes and house made steak sauce with béarnaise for Ramsay. The whole process is uncomfortable, with Ramsay simply pointing at his selection and asking for his tenderloin to be practically raw. Theon decides to just tell their server to give them their best red wine, hoping for something that will leave a stain if he decides to knock his glass over. He isn’t disappointed.

“I’ve heard a lot of different things, so—what exactly was it?” Theon asks, once they’ve been served and he has a bloated wine glass in his hand. “What was it that forced your father to recognize you as his son?”

Ramsay looks decidedly dangerous with a knife and fork in his hand, carving meat into pieces. “That’s such a boring story. I’m surprised by your interest in it. Especially since it won’t be anything you’ve never heard before.”

“Oh?”

“My older brother—well, half-brother!—he died when I was about eleven, or twelve. One of those useless ages before you’ve become a real person.” Ramsay’s waving his knife around in-between bites, the overhead lights catching and flashing off of the metal, blinding Theon every so often as he does his best to politely pick at his own meal despite a lack of appetite. “One day I was told my father wanted to see me. As I’m sure you can imagine, this had never happened before and I was _very_ excited.”

Theon hates that he can relate to this and he focuses on the taste of chili and mustard in his mouth, concentrating on the idea of burning, the concept of his skin melting away.

“I’d only been inside the main house a handful of times, and this was the first time in quite a while,” Ramsay continues, knife and fork scraping against the porcelain plate, the sound of it like a shriek in Theon’s ear. “I was led to my father’s office where he sat behind a desk that seemed impossibly big. He leaned over it and he said to me, Ramsay,” he says, in a gruff approximation of what Roose Bolton sounds like, “my son is dead and you’re all I have left now.”

“Were you surprised?” Theon asks, a sinking feeling like a stone in his stomach.

“Oh no.” Ramsay smiles placidly, the perfect picture of violence, a plate full of blood in front of him. “Surprise was a rare emotion for me, even then. So, no. It wasn’t surprise I felt. It was, oh. _Vindication_.”

The wine smells of bitter apples, dark oak, and something Theon has forgotten the name of. He puts the glass down. He’s not thirsty anymore.

“But you understand that don’t you, Theon? Being settled for. It’s not really so bad, especially if you’ve earned it.”

“That might be the case for you, but. I don’t know if you really understand my family.”

“And you do?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Probably not. Fuck, you’re awful to talk with. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Ramsay mouth curls into a smile the same way smoke curls out a flame. He looks as if Theon has just said something mildly amusing and his fingers are tight around the handle of his steak knife. “Oh, Theon. By the time I’m done with you, you aren’t even going to recognize yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. theon just, like, so strikes me as the guy who hovers around his barista and only gives his last name and expects everyone to know how to spell it and complains about it every time and everyone who works there hates him. 2. ramsay’s backstory here is pretty significantly different from canon because of the modern setting. it’s harder to keep your unnerving bastard hidden when dna testing exists, after all, and roose has an election to win, so instead of denying ramsay outright, roose 'accepted' him but ultimately shunned him with cold indifference until he decided he was useful. man, the bolton's just evoke warm and fuzzy feelings no matter what au they're in, huh?


	6. oh, but not me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon is of the opinion that he fits right in.
> 
>  
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MoDclBlSMgU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks, as always, for the lovely comments you've all given so far. hope this chapter is enjoyable!

Theon is mic’d up, sitting pretty in front of the cameras, wearing a slim fit Samuelsohn collection wool suit in deep blue with a windowpane pattern. It’s a Northern-made suit, which shows his commitment to the region despite having been raised elsewhere. He even made a point to buy his shirt and tie from the same collection, on the advice of Robb, who said that pink was a surprisingly good color on him. Theon isn’t entirely sure he agrees, but he’s hoping his fashion choices are a sidenote to what the interview is going to be about.

The cameraman tells him to look straight ahead and speak at a normal volume. Theon acts like he’s heard it all before, but the truth is this is his first time doing anything like this by himself, and every other experience he’s had was when his father was doing press ages ago, when Theon was a kid and could charm people simply by existing, no words needed. Now he has an earpiece in and he’s pressing the palms of his hands against his thighs when he hears Baelish’s voice in his ear.

“We’re going to be talking to Theon Greyjoy tonight, one of the more interesting players in this year’s elections. Mr. Greyjoy, hello.”

“Hello, Petyr. I have to say, it's still strange to be called Mr. Greyjoy. That's my father,” Theon smiles in a way he hopes is winsome, looking directly into the camera, and he’s rewarded with Baelish’s laughter in his ear.

It was a gamble to agree to come on Baelish’s show and Robb had initially advised against it. Theon had convinced him, using word-for-word arguments that Roose Bolton had already used against him when he first brought up the idea. Hard questions were bound to be asked and it would be better for Theon to face someone who, behind closed doors, was on their side. Even if ‘their side’ was technically Catelyn Stark’s side—old flames die hard, apparently.

“Well, you’re certainly charming, Theon, but that’s part of the concern. Have you charmed your way into Robb Stark’s inner circle despite having limited qualifications and a sordid past?”

This one was obvious. Theon puts a hand just over his tie, an apologetic stance he's been practicing in the mirror. “I’ve been very open about my past, with the media and with Robb, and I actually think it aids my ability to work with this campaign.”

“How so?”

“A few ways,” Theon says, shifting into talking points mode. “I come with an outside knowledge of the constituents in Robb’s district. As the demographics of the area change, we see the influences of different cultures. Ironborn culture in particular. It’s important that Ironborn values are taken into consideration in order to secure a growing number in the population. My difference in religion from the Stark family is well-noted and not hidden and, as such, it is an asset. Continuing on that trend, I also bring another demographic to the table.”

“That of drug addicts and alcoholics? Is that the demographic you’re referring to?”

Theon laughs, going for self-conscious but affable. It's important that people view him as knowing his faults. “It is, in fact. Substance abuse issues are a common problem in Westeros across the board. They affect people of all races, class standings, genders, and ages, whether directly or not.”

“For example, your late adolescent years greatly effected your father’s political campaign and threatened his chances for reelection.”

“Well, he’s still in office.”

“He is, that's true. Perhaps people aren’t affected by this issues like you’re claiming, then.”

“No, that’s not—“

“Well, your answer implies that your father wasn’t effected by what happened.”

“My father is, ha.” Theon smiles again, but it feels forced this time. “Quite honestly my father is made of stone. You wouldn’t know how it effected him unless you were around him behind closed doors, and that’s part of the problem. Many of us see co-workers and family members and friends every day who are dealing with these kinds of issues, but we don’t realize it because they don’t feel comfortable talking about it with us or anyone else.”

“And you’re saying that you’re the one who’s going to help people feel more comfortable.”

“Yes. Maybe not directly, of course. But as a part of Robb Stark’s campaign staff, I will always keep these issues on the table and at the front of his mind. The inclusion of all people, the consideration of all issues—these are key parts of Robb’s ideology.”

“A valid point and certainly something to think about. Before you go, Theon, one more thing. Recent stories of you and Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton’s son, meeting together several times in the past few weeks have been floating around. Can you speak to the validity of them?”

“Certainly, I haven’t heard them all myself, but I would expect them all to be true.”

“All?”

“Most likely, yes. Ramsay and I have been speaking solely on a personal basis.”

“You’re friends, then?”

“Sure. We have been for a while now. I’ve made it my business to separate my personal and professional life.”

“I imagine you would have to, Theon, considering the nature of your position here. Your father has never been fond of the Starks and there are certainly rumors that he isn't fond of you either."

"Rumors are rumors. I try to pay them no mind, especially when I know for myself that they aren't true."

"Well, let’s hope you can continue to. Thank you for joining us tonight.”

“You’re welcome.”

The red light next to the camera flashes on, off, on, off, and the cameraman signals that they’re off air. Theon stands up and rips off his mic, taking his anger out on the tape connecting the wire to the inside of his clothing. If it weren’t for the cameraman Theon would have thrown something by now. He wants to hear the sound of breaking glass, of something being destroyed. He smiles thinly at the cameraman when he leaves and wrenches his tie off as soon as he’s alone.

With the room empty, he looks for something to break, something no one will miss. All he can think of is himself.

“Fuck!”

“Theon?” That's Robb’s tentative voice from outside the door, knocking on it with his knuckles. Theon’s inside the meeting room of their campaign headquarters, which is the rented fifth floor of an office building. It's his least favorite place in the world.

“Just a second.” he says, voice strained. His tie is crumpled on the floor and he has two fistfuls of his hair. He drags his hands down over his face and breathes out. “Okay.”

The door clicks open and Robb leans in, hopeful. “Hey! I thought it went well.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess I just…I didn’t plan on him bringing up my father.” Theon's pacing, avoiding Robb's eyes, looking down at the floor.

“Really? Because I thought you handled it well. And you looked good.”

Theon pauses, turns around to face Robb, and puts his hand flat against his stomach. “Did I?”

“Amazing, yes, according to Jeyne. I was on the phone with her while it was airing.”

Theon turns around again, tunes Robb out. He really doesn’t fucking care if Jeyne Westerling thinks he looked good on television. He’s not even sure if he cares whether or not Robb does anymore. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sees that he has a new text.

Robb is saying something about a new ad, how he likes the idea of this new branding of his campaign, the use of the word ‘inclusion’.

“Yeah,” Theon says, cutting him off. “I have to go. There’s—I have a thing. An appointment. With a doctor.”

A few months ago he would have been sickly thrilled to see the disappointment on Robb’s face that he sees there now. Right now it just reminds him that he needs to get out of here, out of this room, out of this building. He needs to be anywhere else.

 

* * *

 

Theon is staying in the presidential suite of a local resort, which is nearly equidistant from the Stark family home and from Robb’s campaign headquarters. It’s a little place, tucked in amongst a sea of green trees, with a river running through the property. The rooms are brightly lit, but private, decorated in light blues, greys, and whites along with dark wood accents. The art on the walls is neither tacky nor avant garde. Theon is of the opinion that he fits right in.

Naturally, Ramsay looks dismally out of place when he comes by.

Theon doesn’t know what he’s wearing and really doesn’t care. It’s probably from some big box store, t-shirts that come in six packs and jeans that turn stiff when you let them hang out to dry. All the things Theon can’t stand, Ramsay wears them on days like these.

“Did you see it?” Theon’s going in circles around the place, trying to find something to do with his hands. He might get started on making dinner, but he probably won’t because he’s not a good cook and the room service here is excellent. It just sounds like a good idea in his head.

Ramsay’s eating an apple that’s green and shining and came from the bowl of them that’s set in the middle of the dining room table. Theon had assumed they were fake, but the juice running down and over Ramsay’s knuckles proves him wrong. He’ll have to lick the bitter taste off, later.

“I watched it on the way over.”

“In your car?”

“On my cell phone. I have one of those.”

“Oh. Right. Well?” Theon stands with his hands on his hips, finally stopping in front of where Ramsay is sitting in one of the high, wicker-backed chairs that are set by the island in the kitchen.

“I was very flattered that you called us friends.” _Crunch_ , a bite into the skin of the apple and a smile. “I’m not sure that’s the word I would use, but. Certain circumstances beg a certain amount of…decorum.”

Theon snorts and walks towards the fridge, pulling the door open and peering inside. The cool air feels good on his skin and he wants to stay here forever. “People will assume we’re backchanneling about the election, but no one will be able to prove anything. Us being friends is hardly an oddity, considering we run in the same social circles.”

“You consider me part of your social circle? Why, Theon. I’m honored.”

Ramsay’s set the picked clean apple core on the countertop of the island by the time Theon has decided on the pitcher of ice tea he made last night at three in the morning. He pours himself a glass and then one for Ramsay, because it seems impolite not to. All Ramsay does is sniff at it and then push it to the side. Theon, personally, thinks it tastes the way cigarette smoke smells and downs the whole glass quickly. He isn’t allowed to smoke here unless it’s outside, and it’s too cold to do that very often.

“In any case,” Ramsay says, after a measured silence, “I thought you did very well.”

“I almost lost it when he asked about my father,” Theon admits and Ramsay nods at that.

It’s this sort of thing that makes Ramsay strangely easy to talk to. Whenever Theon rails against his father in front of Robb he gets sympathy and sad looks and I’m-doing-my-best-to-understand nods. Ramsay, in his own fucked up way, actually does understand. He knows what it’s like to have your father be a touchy subject, an uncomfortable conversation topic. He knows what it’s like to be a disappointment. They’ve never discussed it so openly, but Theon knows it’s true and he clings to it for reasons he doesn’t like to analyze.

It’s just—it’s nice to not be alone in that feeling, sometimes.

“You hid it well.”

“Really? I thought it was obvious.”

“I could tell you were upset, but I don’t think most people could. You were able to stay on the message Robb Stark wanted you to send, so I'm sure he was pleased with you.”

“Thank you.”

Ramsay hums at that, dragging his fingers down the condensation that’s accumulated on his untouched glass of iced tea. Theon wonders if any of what he just said was actually meant as a compliment.

He clears his throat and looks towards the windows through which the early evening sky is visible, a watercolor painting above the tree tops. “How long are you here for?”

“That’s up in the air,” Ramsay replies.

“All night, then. Well into the morning.”

“Should I be gone by noon?”

“I have to leave earlier than that, but you can stay until then, sure. I can order you room service before you go, ask them to leave it outside the door.”

“They’ll make assumptions.”

“Yeah, that I’m with some vapid socialite and I want to keep her well fed.”

“Hm.” Ramsay actually smiles at that, and not his usual smile, which is like he’s just thought of something dangerous and disgusting. This time it’s like he actually thinks Theon just said something funny. “And why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

This is how it usually starts, because Theon has found that he’s dreadful at directly asking Ramsay for anything. Part of it is that Ramsay isn’t good at giving direct answers, but the rest of it really is his fault. Ever since that first time in the hotel room when Theon drew blood and Ramsay tried to stop him breathing, he’s been teetering on the edge of getting what he wants. So far he hasn’t quite made the jump into the deep end, and that’s ridiculous. He learned how to swim when he was just barely four years old. His father threw him into the ocean and his brothers laughed as he surfaced, coughing and choking on sea salt. He learned out of pure spite, out of anger. Maybe things have to be the same here if he’s to keep himself from drowning a second time.

Ramsay tells him like this: grabs him by his silk tie, pulls him from the kitchen and down the hallway, not allowing any questions to be asked. The master bedroom is at the end of the hall, a spacious room with an amazing view, and a bed that stretches on for miles in every direction. Theon gets pulled towards it and then pushed. Ramsay’s hands rest on his shoulders, putting him in his place.

“What’s your word,” Ramsay says, and the small taste of a command makes Theon tremble.

“Iron,” he says. He picked it because it’s not something he’d ever say during sex, because it’s simple but harsh, because it reminds him of his father.

“Good.” Ramsay rarely praises him, in any situation, and this one word causes heat to coil in Theon’s gut like a snake waiting to strike. “But I hate this suit. Take it off.”

Ramsay doesn’t like any of his clothes unless they’re on the floor, Theon has found. They’ve only done this two times before, but the third time marks a pattern. Theon takes off his tie first and hands it to Ramsay who keeps it in his hands. The suit jacket is shrugged off next, and then Theon starts to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Pink is a terrible color on you,” Ramsay informs him, and Theon nods in agreement. Next time he won’t listen to Robb about shirts and suits and ties. “You should stick to blues and greys and browns. Have you ever been tied up before?”

Theon is in the middle of pulling his shirt off by the sleeves, mindful of avoiding unwarranted stress on the fabric. Even if he’s never going to wear it again, it’s a nice shirt. “Once. It didn’t go very well. He didn’t know how to tie knots properly.”

“I do.” Theon huffs out a small bit of laughter and suddenly he’s been knocked on his side, Ramsay holding him down by the throat. “What have I said about laughing at me? Would you like it if I laughed at you?”

“No,” Theon gasps out, his mind racing. He’s not sure if they’ve ever talked about it before, but Ramsay seems sure that they have, so—they must have, then. Ramsay’s grip loosens and then he’s learning down and carefully undoing Theon’s belt buckle. He has Theon’s tie draped over his wrist. Theon breathes out against the warmth of the comforter. “Sorry.”

Ramsay doesn’t reply. He slips Theon’s belt out from the loops slowly and then drops it onto the floor with a _thud_. “Everything else off,” he says and Theon can’t help but notice that he’s still fully dressed. He considers saying something about it, but then thinks better of it and sits up slowly before peeling his socks off. Cashmere, but they fall on the carpet in the same way cotton would, not so different in the end.

Ramsay watches as he stands up to push his pants and briefs down, and his eyes linger on Theon’s cock. He’s not quite hard yet, but he knows it’s only a matter of time. That’s all it ever is with Ramsay.

Once he’s naked he sits back down and he gets a pleased smile for that. Or, at least, that’s how he decides to interpret the upturn of Ramsay’s lips. A lot of this—whatever _this_ is—is based on how Theon decides to interpret things.

For example, it’s not exactly that he likes to be told what to do. It’s more that he likes to do what he’s told and have that be recognized by someone.

Ramsay recognizes him in a lot of different ways.

He runs his hands over Theon’s flesh, pushes Theon’s jaw to the side and tells him to stay like that, pushes him around and then gets mad that he doesn’t stay. He’s the type of person who breaks inanimate objects in anger when they don’t or can’t do exactly what he wants them to do. Sometimes Theon feels like he’s been turned into something inanimate and sometimes that doesn’t bother him. If he’s not a person then he doesn’t have regret or shame, he can’t disappoint anyone, he doesn’t have to move from this spot on this bed in this room, not ever.

So far they haven’t fucked face to face and Theon knows if he asked for that he’d get laughed at. The first time was more tender than the last—Ramsay kissed the inside of his thigh then. Now he bites it before instructing Theon to turn over. Theon’s starting to have marks from these encounters, but nothing that’s stuck for more than a handful of days. He’s expecting that to change soon, shaking with anticipation of the idea that something big is coming. He doesn’t want to miss it when it does.

Ramsay fucks into him with an understated sort of elegance that Theon wouldn’t have expected of someone who wears untailored suits. It’s not that he’s gentle or kind, it’s just that he knows what he’s doing. He has a vice-like grip on one of Theon’s thighs, pulling it almost painfully to the side. His touches are always like that: on the verge of making Theon feel more pain than pleasure, one step away from the edge of some great, dark canyon. As it is, Theon moans and gasps and feels spit pooling out of his mouth onto the comforter. The arch of his back is trembling agony with Ramsay draped over him as he comes.

There’s no reason for it, but it occurs to Theon more sharply than ever in that moment. How easily Ramsay could kill him. But he probably won’t.

Theon isn’t a girl.


	7. i know my faults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Northern Senate Race. Stark 63, Bolton 46. Stark +17.  
> President Baratheon Job Approval. Approve 51, Disapprove 47. Approve +4.  
> Direction of Country. Right Direction 56, Wrong Direction 49. Right Direction +7.  
> Ramsay Bolton and Theon Greyjoy's Relationship. Fucked Up 99, Entirely Normal 1. Fucked Up +98. 
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mssm8Ml5sOo)

Polling shows Robb up by seventeen points, with pundits calling him the proverbial King in the North, to no one’s surprise.

It was Sansa’s idea to call Roose Bolton a leech and that may have something to do with his dipping poll numbers. He's a leech on the middle class, a leech on social benefits, a leech on businesses and the military and education. No one likes to see education fucked with. Robb has used the word ‘leech’ over one hundred times in the last two weeks according to various news outlets, and it gets bigger cheers from the crowds he stands in front of each time. Those crowds are growing, the people are getting louder, and last night he had a girl propose to him at a rally. He said no, of course, but did it so gently that Theon almost puked his guts out back stage. The girl was in tears, but adamant that she would still vote for him, because she just turned eighteen last summer and it was her civic duty.

Theon’s done a half a dozen more interviews, all of them going more smoothly than his appearance on Baelish’s show. Everyone’s asked about Ramsay, but it’s a formality by now, a little joke to throw in at the end of the segment, which almost makes him more likable for all its strangeness. Mostly, he gets asked about Robb—how are his spirits, is he or isn’t he going to marry the Westerling daughter, when will the entire Stark family make an appearance, what are Robb’s specific plans to fulfill his promises to his constituents.

It’s that last question that trips Theon up in the best way possible. He never gives a straight answer, he dances around the question, and the press sinks their teeth in.

Roose Bolton is pleased—this was part of his plan—but Robb is obviously not.

He pushes the _Herald_ across the desk towards Theon. “Read that,” he says.

Theon does. It’s an op ed, raising questions about the hows that are suspiciously missing from the Stark campaign. It’s delightfully insinuating and it’s by Jon Snow. It talks about Robb as a child, the time he promised a whole neighborhood’s worth of kids that he’d buy them ice cream and then tearfully apologized when his mom refused to give him the money. Theon wasn’t there that day, but he laughed when he heard, laughed until he was gasping for breath, because it sounded exactly like something Robb would do.

 _Naturally,_ Jon writes, _we all want to believe that Stark can do what he’s saying, just like those kids on that sweltering summer day. But voters should be wary, lest they end up standing in the middle of the road, empty-handed as they listen to apologies made by a boy who can’t actually provide what he’s promising._

“Shit,” Theon says, staring at Jon’s stupid picture at the side of the article. He looks forlorn and serious in it. Theon wants to cut out the whole thing and put it on his wall.

“Yeah. Shit doesn’t quite cover what I said this morning on the phone with him, but it’ll do for now.”

“You called him?”

“Yes I fucking called him,” Robb spits out. “Fucking traitor. My dad did everything for him and this is how he repays him?”

Theon nods, though he’s thinking that Robb isn’t Ned Stark and Jon doesn’t really owe _Robb_ anything. But it won’t do to say that right now. Nod and agree and sympathize. “Maybe I could talk to him.” He reaches for his phone, pulling up his messaging app, fully prepared to do fuck all.

“No,” Robb says, predictably. “He was stubborn when I talked to him, so—I don’t think you could help.”

“Good point.” It isn’t, but whatever. Robb and Jon were close when they were younger in ways that made Theon’s stomach twist when he was naive enough to be constantly, stupidly jealous of everyone who was close to Robb that wasn’t him. But ever since Jon moved away he’s been prone to radio silence for weeks at a time, with periodic updates that Theon knows infuriate Robb more than they do placate him. Theon’s probably talked to Jon more in the past two years than Robb has, even if all of his conversations with Jon are actually thinly veiled arguments.

It probably wouldn’t do to mention that Jon asked what he thought about the op ed yesterday before he submitted it. Theon believes his exact words were _this won’t ruin his chances, will it_? Theon thinks ‘ruin’ is a pretty strong word. It certainly won’t ruin things. But he has a feeling it will create a small crack in Robb’s otherwise solid foundation, and it’s only a matter of time from there.

Theon taps two fingers against the paper. “This is good, actually.”

“How the fuck—in what world is this _good_?”

“Look at it this way. It was inevitable that you would have bad press, and this?” Theon waves a hand over the paper. “This is fluff. Jon’s spinning a story and he’s a smalltime name. Sure it will make a splash for a few weeks, but he’s basing his entire argument on speculation and a story that’s over a decade old. Meanwhile, Bolton’s got a rap sheet a mile long full of shit the general public doesn’t like. There’s one piece like this about you, but there’s already a hundred about him and there will be _more_ about him. This? It’s nothing.”

 

* * *

 

It isn’t nothing, of course.

By April, Robb has a handful of charges being consistently brought against him. He’s making promises he can’t keep, he’s never held office before, he’s riding on his father’s name without the experience or expertise to back up his claim, and he’s too young, too handsome, too single.

Theon’s on the way back to his suite on an early evening after a long day of listening to other people talk. The government’s spring recess officially starts tomorrow and it coincides with an agreed upon break from campaigning for both the Bolton and Stark campaigns. It looks very civilized and mature from the outside, but Theon knows Robb is traveling to Essos to garner foreign donor support under the guise of a holiday trip with his family and Roose Bolton, among other things, is going to be waiting for Theon when he gets home.

He isn’t sure if he wants or doesn’t want Ramsay to be there as well, but what he wants doesn’t matter, as usual. Ramsay is nowhere to be seen. Roose Bolton is waiting for him like a particularly confident serial killer.

“Good to see you,” Theon says, dropping his keys on the kitchen counter nonchalantly as though his heart isn’t beating like a drum in his chest. Roose smiles at him thinly in response. He really doesn’t smile any other way, Theon’s found. “Are you leaving for Dorne after this?”

“Yes,” Roose says. He’s standing in the middle of the living room, next to the glass coffee table, like he doesn’t understand the idea of sitting down and making the atmosphere comfortable. “I have a standing reservation at the Sand Palaces. Lovely place.” Theon tries to imagine Roose on the beach with sunscreen on his nose and a pair of flip flops on. He really, really can’t and that’s probably for the best. “And you?”

“I’m heading to Pyke for a few days. I’ll spend time with my family.”

“You’ll talk to your father?”

That’s part of the deal, the worst part. Theon’s father has never much cared for his opinion, and now he’s only got half a week to make that change at least this once. Still, he nods. He’ll talk. It doesn’t mean his father will listen.

“Good,” Roose nods and seems to relax minutely. He walks towards the bookcase against one of the living room walls. “Ramsay seems to like you.”

“Oh?” This is news to Theon.

“As much as he can like anyone.” Roose’s fingers are on the spine of one of the books. Theon doesn’t know what they are, some collection of old classics, nothing offensive, probably. Stories of old dynasties like the Targaryens and of old wars, too, everything old. Theon doesn’t have an interest in the past, though perhaps he should consider cultivating one. “I hope you know what he is.”

“I’m sorry?” Theon stands in the doorway, unable to take a step forward and unwilling to take a step back.

“It’s difficult to live in this political climate. Stifling,” Roose continues, as if Theon hasn’t spoken. He pulls a book out, and turns it towards Theon. “Times were simpler when you could shove a sword through a man and call it justice. Coat your hands in his blood and be the victor. Now they lock you up. I think I would have done well in such times. What about you, Theon?”

Theon thinks of the heavy weight of a weapon in his hands, the crushing weight of expectations on his shoulders. “I’m not sure if I would have been better off or worse. My life—I’m not sure it would have been that different.”

Roose makes a soft noise, like he considers the answer fair, and replaces the book in the bookcase. “Ramsay would have fared better. He’s too brutal for the subtleties of politics. It’s been hell to shield him from what he’s done.”

“The girls, you mean?”

Roose smiles, that cold and calculating upturn of his lips, and nods. “Yes, Theon. The girls. He’s bad at planning ahead. I never paid much attention to him when he was a child, but it feels like he’s still a child in some ways. The constant messes, the broken things. Following after him and cleaning things up. You’ve kept him calm for a few months now, but it won’t last forever. He’s got a taste for it. For their screams.”

Theon flinches, involuntarily, the feeling of Ramsay’s hands on his throat and the marks that he has to make sure to cover up when he’s going to be on camera.

“My only advice to you, Theon, is to be careful.” Roose says, turning away so that Theon can’t see his face. “That, and buy your father dinner before you talk to him. He’s always been more open to suggestion with a full stomach.”

And then he’s gone, the door is closed behind him, and Theon’s left alone with the glow of the setting sun streaming in through the windows, the whole world painted with dying light.

 

* * *

 

Pyke is waiting for him, looking grey and dour even from the window of an airplane.

He picks his luggage up at baggage claim and has just enough time to consider throwing up in the bathroom. He ultimately decides against it and calls a taxi for himself, waiting on the sidewalk and checking his phone every five seconds. It’s a bit of a surprise when Asha pops out from the back of a black towncar and yells, “Baby brother!”

She looks electric, ecstatic, very excited. It’s not a way in which Theon is used to her looking around him or anyone. She stalks up the sidewalk in kitten heels and a navy pantsuit and Theon feels underdressed in his Loro Piana cashmere and silk-blend tracksuit pants. He likes to fly in comfort, but suddenly he’s being pulled into the car with her and being told, “Come on, we’re going out to eat with dad.”

“He’s going? Willingly?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, this is sure to go well. You’re on uppers, apparently, I smell like stale airline peanuts, and I’m going to go ahead and assume our dear old dad is going to be a little less than thrilled about my presence.”

“Oh, Theon. I’m not on uppers, don’t be ridiculous.”

The rest of it turns out to be true, in any case, as they end up at an upscale approximation of a steakhouse, in a back room with a door, where Theon’s father seems to have already eaten half of the complimentary entrees. They all order and Balon insults Theon’s outfit, asking who bought it.

“Me,” Theon says, “I did,” as he hands the server his menu. His father looks suitably unimpressed. “Well, I didn’t know I was coming out to dinner, did I? No one told me.”

“It was a very last minute decision,” Asha admits, with that sort of easy honesty that gets her into trouble a lot of the time. “You weren’t actually invited. Neither was I, come to think of it.”

That sounds like Theon’s father, actually, eating by himself in the back of an expensive restaurant instead of meeting his only remaining son at the airport. Theon can’t even remember the last time they talked, maybe at Asha’s party a few months back, if he can even count that. He thinks the last time he really talked to his father was when he was six years old and stupidly scared of the dark. There were certainly things to be scared of, his father had told him, so not being scared wasn’t possible. The trick was to be the scarier thing. Theon never quite mastered that part and when he sits here with his family he starts to remember why brown glass bottles appealed to him so much in the not so long ago past.

His steak is well done, his beer is dark, and the conversation is a thinly veiled argument.

Theon keeps quiet as his father and Asha talk about some business deal he knows nothing about. He feels sixteen again, trapped between them and his own failings. He used to run to Robb for support, calling him late at night to keep himself from punching things, telling him his worst fears, kissing him once on a summer day, drunk out of his mind because of a six pack and the enveloping, dry heat of the air around them. There were times when Theon wanted to claw his own throat out, times when he wanted to kill his father, times when he felt powerless and sat in the darkness of his bedroom, alone and too exhausted in his isolation to do anything.

His father sent him to rehab because it was the thing to do, not because he really wanted to get him help. Theon feels, sometimes, like some old family heirloom. Something his father got fixed out of a sense of responsibility, not because he actually cares.

As it is, Theon still drinks, the cracks still show through his newest layer of paint, and he will never look exactly the way he did before.

He’s not sure when the last time was that he was happy, though maybe it was that summer afternoon, his drunk lips against Robb’s, the suspended moment before he was pushed away.

He holds his empty glass in hand, sitting back in his chair and considering the feeling of it against his palm, heavy and light at the same time. His father’s saying something about the uselessness of the people around him who don’t fit exactly his idea of worthwhile. It’s a typical tract of his, one that Theon’s had thrown in his face more times than he can count, and he can’t help but breathe out a small laugh, hearing it.

“What’s so funny?” his father asks and Asha rolls her eyes to the side, not so much because she doesn’t agree with him, but because it’ll be the same argument for about the thousandth time. “I realize you’re under the impression that just because you’ve done a few television interviews as Robb Stark’s puppet, that somehow that means you’re worth something now?”

Theon shakes his head. “I really don’t feel like talking about this right now. It’s stupid.”

“Is it? I’ve got half my staff laughing behind my back because my son is more invested in the political career of some pampered northern boy than he is in the life of his own father.”

“Oh? What? Because you’re so interested in _my_ life?”

“I could have very easily allowed you to die in some seaside crackhouse, but I didn’t.”

“I never fucking smoked crack, much less spent my time in a crackhouse, shit, what _year_ do you think it is?”

“Theon,” Asha says, like she’s somehow going to help with a patronizing tone. It’s childish, but she always takes their father’s side and Theon has to bite at the inside of his mouth to keep from screaming that at her, wild eyed.

His father is looking at him from across the table, a leveled gaze, and it’s now or never.

“Robb’s campaign is going to self-destruct soon enough. I thought you might want to know,” Theon says, his heart pounding hard in his chest. The only time he was ever happy, he got pushed away. This time—he needs to be allowed to stay. “The press has been slowly chipping away at him, and I’ve been nudging them in that direction for a while now. If you endorse Bolton, he’ll secure the Ironborn vote in the north and then it’s only a matter of time.”

He places his empty glass on the table and finally allows himself to imagine it half full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter’s a lot of set up, but i hope it’s vaguely interesting set up. if anyone cares about how i see modern day westerosi politics being specifically: each of the kingdoms are more or less a state/providence, with the number of senators per ‘kingdom’ being determined by population. the north has a large, but sparse population, so they have two representatives (the one who wasn’t ned stark is walder frey). with a small amount of senators, the elections get more coverage than senator races in america would, and the senators have a substantial amount of power. robb and roose are also the only ones running at the moment, because their election was forced due to ned’s death, rather than coming about naturally, hence the national attention focused on it. as you can tell, i’ve thought way too much about this, but there you go.


	8. when these bones decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watch your step.
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psiILfa-G1c)

“Is this building structurally sound?” Ramsay is eating an entire handful of roasted walnuts, which Theon is pretty sure you’re supposed to eat one at a time. He looks terrible in a rumpled suit, with salt on his fingertips.

“Yes, probably,” Theon replies, wishing they were somewhere else, “but let’s not go testing that theory.”

They’re on the top floor of the Capitol building, right across from the Keep. The building _is_ old and covered in hideous paintings of past presidents and various other historical figures of apparent importance. Theon would have thrown himself out the window hours ago if it wasn’t for the scandal unfolding in front of them. The president’s brother is gay, obviously. That’s not the scandal. The scandal is that he’s sleeping with one of the Tyrell sons and it’s painfully obvious. Everyone is pretending to have conversations while actually watching what’s going on near the far westside door, where the president and his younger, gayer brother are having a heated argument.

“Which brother do you suppose it is?” Theon whispers, feeling strangely interested. “It has to be Loras, doesn’t it?”

“Who are we talking about again?” Ramsay is very uninterested, as he usually is in most things that happen in rooms like these. “And why does it matter?”

“I mean, it doesn’t, but. Sansa—didn’t you have a thing for Loras at one point?”

Sansa, who is sitting at their table out of what Theon can only suppose is a mixture of boredom and kindness, makes a face. “When I was twelve, sure. That’s embarrassing to think about, though. I’m sure I made an idiot of myself every time I saw him.”

“You definitely did—wasn’t there one time he gave you a rose?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me! I cried when it started to wilt, I thought it symbolized our relationship, but it was already dead by the time he gave it to me!”

Theon finds the whole thing very entertaining. Sansa’s the type of sister he wished Asha was when he was younger, sweet and put together unless you're on the wrong end of her temper. The rest of their table is full of old money couples who are smiling beneath their gaudy diamonds, all of whom are charmed by Sansa and openly annoyed by Ramsay’s presence. Theon sits in the middle of the two of them, playing his part. He knows he has the social grace and good looks that these people fly high on like paint fumes. But he also has an ugly past, like burned flesh, the scar of something nobody likes to remember. He considers it delicious—the way he makes these people unsure of how to feel about him.

The best part is that he is by far the best dressed at the table, wearing a black and grey gingham print Tom Ford two piece suit. Made from wool, the base was created specifically for some famous action movie role that Theon can’t be bothered to remember. The point is that he’s the best looking person here and he wouldn’t blame someone if they assumed he and Sansa were a couple, because he far outshines Ramsay in every aspect. This is, naturally, a good thing, as he would rather be shot in the face at pointblank range than have there be any credibility to the rumors that he and Ramsay are fucking. There is a low rumble throughout their current crowd, but it’s completely eclipsed by the now undeniable news that Renly Baratheon has regularly been sucking the cock of some second-rate Tyrell.

What a night for the country, indeed. It’s a shame that Robb is missing it to take some ill-advised trip to one of the poorer areas of the North. He’s staying in a nice hotel, of course, but it’s the principle of the thing.

It’s been a long walk to the end of the night, with various people giving speeches about the charity they’re all ostensibly supporting, all of them making toasts to ugly, dying people. And they're only halfway through. The whole thing is just an excuse for people with money and a nose in politics to pat each other on the back, sipping expensive champagne in expensive suits. Not that Theon’s exempt by any means, but that doesn’t make the whole thing any less annoying. He’s not even sure why Ramsay is here, aside from the frankly weird idea that he might just be here because Theon is.

Ramsay is currently making the older woman sitting next to him extremely uncomfortable by talking about how he’s relatively sure the entire building could collapse at any time.

“I hate to interrupt,” Theon says, though he really doesn’t. “But there’s something Mr. Bolton and I need to discuss elsewhere.”

“Is there?” Ramsay asks, doing a very bad job of playing along, probably on purpose.

“Yes, there is,” Theon replies, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket.

Sansa is busy pretending to listen to some married, middle aged man who’s one wrong move from coming in his trousers just because she’s looking at his shoulder disinterestedly, but she looks up and smiles, giving Theon a brief nod as he leaves.

Outside of the stuffy, dimly lit ballroom is a wide hallway with two sets of gold-gilded elevator doors and the intense smell of dead things.

“I was having a good time, you know,” Ramsay says as Theon makes a split second decision to head towards the door to the stairs. “Well, I was drinking good wine, anyway.”

“I’ll buy you better wine.”

“Careful with promises like that, you wouldn’t want to break them.”

Theon doesn’t reply, he just opens the heavy door that leads to the stairs. Inside is concrete and glowing, fluorescent, sickly blue. He wants to break Ramsay’s jaw, but he settles for biting at it instead. Ramsay responds by pushing him bodily against the hard metal of the railing that separates them from a ten story drop down.

“I can’t do these parties,” he says, leaning back and enjoying the dismay caused by the _nothingness_ at his back. “I can’t sit there, listening to all that bullshit. I feel like I’m going to go insane.”

“Why don’t you?” Ramsay asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. The way he kisses Theon is bruising, breaking blood vessels, the feeling of digging your nails into a wound that’s just beginning to heal. For Theon it’s relief—relief that the pain isn’t going to be over, relief that he’s still being taken to task for the things that he’s done. It’s not that this is hell, this stairwell in the Capitol, but that’s only because he’ll leave here, eventually.

Ramsay palms at the front of Theon’s pants and Theon’s eyelids flutter closed, the light strobe-like for a moment before it’s gone and darkness washes over him like a cool wave.

That’s when he hears the door open and, “Oh!”

Eyes wide open again and, over Ramsay’s shoulder, Theon sees Sansa Stark, her eyes wide and her mouth a shiny, scandalized O.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice high and surprised, and Theon can think of nothing to do but push Ramsay to the side and reach out and grab her by the wrist.

“No,” he says, a million things racing through his mind. “You can’t—you can’t tell him.” They both know who he means and Sansa shakes her head frantically.

“I won’t! I swear!”

“If you do—Robb will—he’ll think all sorts of…ridiculous things.”

“Ridiculous things?” Ramsay says, from where he’s inched closer to the door, blocking the way out, Theon supposes, in case he can’t hold Sansa here any longer.

“Yes! Like, fuck, I don’t know, but you can’t tell him, Sansa.”

“I wasn’t going to—if you’d just listen to me!” Sansa wrenches her wrist away from Theon’s grip, and now she looks angry. “Honestly, Theon! I’ve known you forever, do you really think I’d tell someone?”

Theon hesitates and glances over his shoulder at Ramsay, unsure of what to do. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Sansa, it’s more that he’s not sure if he should trust himself. Maybe his father’s been right all this time, maybe he’s too soft on the Starks. It’s a lesson he could learn from Ramsay, who isn’t soft on anyone. He makes a face that says that he thinks Theon’s pitiful right now, but he advances nonetheless. It's ess because, Theon thinks, he really wants to help out, and more because he finds the situation personally interesting.

Ramsay reaches out and he runs a finger through her hair, grabs a chunk of it, and pulls on the end.

“This color—is it natural?” he asks, so nonchalantly that Theon almost forgets the situation they’re in. He has to stifle a laugh, but he immediately stops when Ramsay's hand finds its way onto Sansa's shoulder, gripping hard, and she steps backwards, the heel of her shoe missing concrete and hitting air, her hand slipping off of the railing.

Theon is sure for a moment that it’s just going to be an awkward stumble, that Ramsay will keep her safe. He watches as she turns her head in his direction, frantically, and he isn’t entirely sure what happens, everything is off balance and something seems to be _missing_ , but she suddenly seems to be arcing through the air backwards. The bottoms of her shoes are red, brilliant and bright, her dress is white and gold, and she doesn’t hit one stair on the way down, but her head hits the concrete of the landing below with a sickening _crack_.

There’s almost-silence, the hum of the fluorescent lights above and the sound of water dripping somewhere.

And then Theon is rushing down the stairs, calling her name.

“Sansa?” he says, like a question, like a mantra. “Sansa?”

She’s laid out like she’s sleeping and one her pumps has come off the heel of her foot. Her hair is around her head like a mane and her eyes are open, staring at absolutely nothing. Theon reaches her and grabs for one of her hands, shaking as it drops out of his grip far too easily. He looks back up at Ramsay, who’s standing still, looking impassive. Then back to Sansa, his fingers against her wrist, there has to be something. She bribed him into braiding her hair once when he was thirteen. This is not allowed to be happening.

There’s the slow _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of someone walking down the stairs behind him, and Theon can’t look away from the soft angle of her jaw. Ramsay is next to him, leaning down, and he presses his fingers against her neck. _No_ , Theon wants to say, _not you_ , but he has no voice.

Ramsay breathes air out through his nose and stands back up again. “She won’t be heavy,” he says.

“What?” The word comes out broken.

“You’ll have to carry her down. I’ll bring your car around.”

“My car?”

“Well, we can’t use mine. Or, rather, I’m not willing to use mine. Luckily she doesn’t have any open wounds, I’d guess she broke her neck.”

“What are you— _stop_.” Theon braces his hand against the wall next to him and pulls himself up. He’ll never be taller than Ramsay, but he comes close at full height and he refuses to be cowed. Not now. “We have to tell someone. If we explain—“

“Oh, yes, sorry Robb, but I killed your little sister.”

“I did _not_ kill her," Theon says, keeping his voice as hard as he can. His voice still shakes on the last two words.

“How sure are you that he, or anyone else for that matter, won’t think you did?” Ramsay is towering and Theon almost wishes he hadn’t stood up, because now he has to look him in the eyes and they're the same as ever. Bright and untouchable. “You’re more of an idiot than I thought if you think he’ll support you. He’ll _hate_ you.”

Theon looks down at Sansa, though it’s not even her anymore. It’s her body. He’ll have to get her shoe back on all the way and get her hair out of her face. She deserves that, at least.

“Do you have gloves?” Ramsay asks and Theon nods. He does, though all he can remember is that they’re pitch black and soft, safe in the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls them out now and puts them on, focusing on the tactile sensations, broken-in leather against his skin. “It’s ten flights down. I’ll be waiting for you at the bottom.”

“What will we do? What are we going to do with her?” Theon’s voice cracks when he says _her_ and he half-expects Ramsay to grab him by the shoulders, irritated by his inability to handle this.

Instead, he reaches out, the surprisingly warm touch of his hand against Theon’s cheek. Theon knows this feeling, the brief moment of calm before the storm. Ramsay is strangely gentle at times, but it always feels like a reminder of what’s to come. Still, he leans into the touch.

“I’ll put her in the ground for you.”

Theon's eyes fall closed, his throat is dry. It's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to him, the kindest thing anyone's ever done for him.

When he opens his eyes he sees Ramsay's retreating back as he makes his way up the stairs, not even so much as looking back.

The door swings shut behind Ramsay and Theon is left alone.

He hunches down and tries to remember how to lift something— _someone_ —so heavy. He carefully puts her shoe back on, gently pushing the heel of her foot back in to the heel of the shoe. Something about the action feels very final. He puts one arm behind Sansa’s back and another under the backs of her knees. He shakes as he stands, not from her weight, but from a sudden loss of breath. He is holding death in his arms and he forgot to close her eyes. Her head lolls back and she stares up at the ceiling and he chokes on a sob.

When he dies he will be nothing but a bloated body in the sea. Even drowning won’t save him now.

He quickly feels that the stairs are endless. Each step is agony, the gold of Sansa’s dress shining in his eyes. He is only two flights down before he has to lean against a wall and close his eyes, breathing heavily. There are unshed tears in his eyes and he almost wishes someone would catch him. Some idiot from the party upstairs with a flute of champagne. _Please_ , he thinks, _please_.

He keeps going.

The worst part is her weight in his arms like a reminder. He’s sure the ache he’s feeling will never go away. The feeling of her against him, empty and gone, is going to stay with him forever. He almost appreciates the chance to define himself: murderer, destroyer, betrayer. He has this strange feeling his father would be proud and there’s something about that notion that makes his knees shake. He has three more flights of stairs to go, sweat streaming down his face, and he’s tempted to set Sansa down, run back up to the top, and jump to the ground himself. He wants to claw at his own arms, his face, his throat, but he continues walking down.

Silence. He’s made it to the bottom and he falls to his knees violently, Sansa’s body shifting in his arms. He has to put her down, he needs a moment alone. When she’s on the ground he covers his face with his hands and lets out a shaky, rattling breath. He should be upstairs, drinking and smoking, pretending to laugh and trying desperately to be liked.

He doesn’t let himself cry.

After a long moment his hands fall away from his face and he looks down. Sansa is staring back at him, her eyes glassy and her lips turning blue. He reaches down and closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because he failed her.

The door in front of him swings open and his heart stops, but it’s only Ramsay, with the back of Theon’s car behind him, the trunk popped open.

To Theon's surprise, Ramsay walks forward without a word and leans down. He carries Sansa to the car and puts her inside while Theon watches.

It takes him a moment, but Theon stands up again and walks forward, leaving the stairwell behind and coming to stand next to Ramsay, looking down into the trunk.

Ramsay’s set out blue tarp against the interior and Theon knows better than to ask where he got it from. The door is on the far side of the building, hidden behind the fat end of a dumpster in a poorly lit, boxed in and fenced off area. There are distant lights of apartment buildings in one direction and well-maintained privacy hedges in another. The other way must lead to the massive parking lot, and Theon is only thinking about all of this so much because it’s easier to handle than the fact that he’s currently reaching down to push a few errant strands of Sansa's hair out of her face, because she can no longer do that for herself.

When he’s done, Ramsay shuts the trunk and says, “I’ll drive.”

Theon gets into the passenger seat, feeling weightless in the worst way. He’d gladly carry Sansa’s weight for the rest of his life, if it meant that she could be alive.

“You’ll need an alibi,” Ramsay says, putting the key into the ignition.

“You?” Theon says, uselessly.

“I’ll do for an hour or two after we left the party, but. It’s better if we split up after that.” Ramsay turns the key and the engine roars to life. For the first time ever, Theon wishes he had a quieter, more subtle car. “You should stay with someone else who you can count on to vouch for you.”

“Okay,” Theon whispers. “And you’ll—you’ll—?”

“Yes, I’ll get rid of her. There are places where she won’t be found.”

“God. Fuck. I can’t. Don’t say things like that to me.”

Ramsay doesn’t say anything in response and the silence hangs between them, stays with them, never leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theon’s suit is [this one](http://www.neimanmarcus.com/TOM-FORD-O-Connor-Base-Bicolor-Gingham-Two-Piece-Suit-Black-Gray-Men-s/prod182390045_cat43890734__/p.prod?icid=&searchType=EndecaDrivenCat&rte=%252Fcategory.jsp%253FitemId%253Dcat43890734%2526pageSize%253D30%2526No%253D0%2526refinements%253D&eItemId=prod182390045&cmCat=product). it strikes me as his most important outfit in the story up until now.


	9. this is (not) a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw someone die the other day.
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqi4whXaHx8)

He isn’t supposed to run in the house, but he does.

His fingertips brush against the walls as he turns corners, wallpaper under his hands. Dark and dour, he’s drawn on it before. All of his siblings have at varying points. There’s a map underneath the newly painted library walls, a map to a treasure that never existed. Theon’s brothers spread out over the property, searching for riches beyond their wildest imagination. Rodrik and Maron are consummate pioneers, overturning rocks and forging new paths. Theon is the tagalong, trying to play a game meant for boys bigger than him. It's always like that.

Most of the time, when he runs, it’s to his mother’s room. She smells like perfume, roses and the pages of books. He leans his head against her heartbeat and listens. It tells him that she loves him. He’s not sure that anyone else does or that anyone else ever will.

A tie gets fit around his neck and it will be a while before he can make the connection but when he’s older he’ll understand that his father would rather be stringing him up with a noose. But for now: a half-windsor, pay attention, Theon, you’ll have to do this yourself one day. A whole outfit picked out for him, a day at the museum. He knows his father had something to do with this building being constructed, but the workings of the government are beyond him. For all he knows, his father created this place.

For all he knows, his father created every place.

People take pictures of them, but to Theon it always feels like people are taking pictures of _him_. He likes to hold his mother’s hand when they go places, but his siblings tease him enough that he stops when he’s in second grade. He doesn’t want to be a baby, but that’s what he always gets called. Baby brother. Baby of the family. Baby boy. Anything but that, he says to his God under the waves, anything.

Rodrik dies serving overseas and six months later Maron dies in a boating accident, the horrific kind. All Theon can think of for months is blood covering everything. Asha tells him that Rod got shot in the head and that’s why they didn’t get to see his body at the funeral. Maron, she says, was nearly decapitated by the propeller in the back, but they covered that up with the collar of his shirt.

Theon has to learn to tie a half-windsor himself for the funerals, there’s no one left who's willing to show him how to do it.

His mother doesn’t answer when he knocks on her door anymore. He hasn’t heard her heartbeat in weeks, months, years. Eventually, he just stops knocking.

Now, he’s running away, down the stairs and out the door, the anger in his father’s voice chasing him away.

He knows now what he wanted then: acceptance, of any kind. He found it in nameless groups of people who would smile at him if he was up for anything, down for whatever. They would sit in circles, everyone watching everyone else. But Theon was used to being watched, never shrunk under the attention. He’d just tip the bottle back, laugh at everything that got said, kiss people against walls and in cars and on the floor—carpet burn.

Saying ‘no’ has never been his strong suit.

A story breaks like waves against the battered shore. Pictures of him at some club he doesn’t even remember going to. Was he there last Thursday, his father asks, eyes hard and hateful. Probably, Theon says, too tired to lie and too awake to tell the truth. He’s called a lot of things over the months that follow. Alcoholic, drug addict, disgrace, spoiled rich kid, fuck up. Nothing he hasn’t thought before, himself. Nothing he won’t continue to think for years to come.

He gets ‘clean’ by some definition of the word. He puts on a good suit and a smile and he fits everything back into place, tying his own double-windsor knot, the only thing that's keeping him together anymore. He steps into madness a few years later and watches a girl die and he wonders.

What was it all for?

 

* * *

 

 

Theon wakes up to the sound of coffee brewing. He estimates that he slept for approximately forty five minutes altogether, and he’s reminded why as soon as he opens his eyes.

The couch in Jon’s apartment is naturally the most uncomfortable one in existence, because Jon buys furniture exclusively while in the mindset of a Tibetan monk, but that’s not really the problem. Theon’s slept on floors before, knocked out cold. A couch from the thrift store is hardly uncharted territory.

“Hey.”

Theon tears his gaze away from the ceiling and looks towards the kitchen nook, which is depressingly small and outdated. Jon is behind the counter, his hair wild and bags like bruises under his eyes. Theon imagines he probably looks worse.

“Hey,” he replies.

“So…coffee?”

It’s disgusting, off-brand, instant shit, but Theon accepts anyway. He sits up while he’s waiting for Jon to pour him a cup and he keeps the blanket he slept under around his shoulders. His suit is on the floor somewhere and he’s only in his boxers now. They’re made of Dornish silk but they aren’t exactly warm and Theon is chilled to the bone right now. It’s the end of April, so that shouldn’t be the case, but Jon has always been adverse to turning on the heat and, besides, there’s ice in Theon’s veins that he doesn’t know how to melt anymore. This is just his state of being now.

Jon’s more fully dressed in cheap cotton sweatpants and a too short t-shirt that advertises a _5k Race for the Cure!_ in red lettering. He hands Theon a mug that has cherry blossoms painted on it and Theon takes it, quickly gulping down half of the contents. It burns all the way down.

Jon sits across from him, pulling his legs up so he’s cross-legged in the worn, blue armchair that Theon remembers used to be in the library of the Stark house. There’s a stain on the cushion from when Arya and Bran tried to balance a glass of grape juice on Rickon’s head, something which Theon may or may not have said was a great idea. Theon can see the purple mark just slightly, to the left of Jon’s right knee. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring at it until Jon manages to get his attention with a question.

“You in there?”

Theon clears his throat because it’s full of dust and cobwebs. “Yeah, sorry, I. I had a rough night.”

“You wanna talk about that?” Jon’s doing that thing where he looks concerned and physically pained at the same time. He’s sipping from his coffee mug which, incidentally, has a picture of his old dog on it, because of course Jon took his dog in to be professionally photographed. “I mean, I obviously let you stay here, but. That was kind of weird. You said…you said that Ramsay Bolton dropped you off, right?”

“Right.” Theon shifts his eyes to the side, focusing on the section of wall directly over Jon’s shoulder. He speaks haltingly. “We had. Kind of. An argument. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Shit.” Jon sets his mug down on the coffee table and Theon fights the urge to say something about the lack of coasters. He’s not sure why he even cares, but it feels intensely important right now. Maybe he’ll get Jon some coasters for his next birthday? “Was it about—the—what I sent you?”

“No, no.” Theon shakes his head, struggling to recall exactly what Ramsay said in the car last night. “He’s just, you know. Worried about his dad’s campaign, he’s upset about the whole…leech thing. He thinks I played some part in it.”

“Oh.” Jon settles back against the cushions. “Well, I guess I can understand that. Do you, uh. Want to talk about what’s going on with that? With…him, I mean. The. Your…relationship.”

Theon rubs at his eyes with one hand. “Not really. Don’t feel like having a scathing article written about my sordid sex life with your byline next to it.”

“I want to say I wouldn’t do that—and I wouldn’t—but I know you won’t believe me.”

Theon shrugs. Why should he? Still, he trusts Jon enough to be here right now. To have slept on his couch with the full intention of putting his fate in Jon’s hands if it ever comes to that. To be thinking about buying him coasters. He wonders where Ramsay buried her. Sansa. He hopes it’s somewhere under an open sky. He’d hate for her to be trapped under concrete. He swallows.

“If you could give me a ride back to the place I’m staying at before you go to work, that’d be great.”

“Sure,” Jon says, though he looks suspicious, like something seems off to him. It’s probably the fact that Theon came here at all, but he’s not lying about having nowhere else to go. He couldn’t face Robb right now and his family is a thousand miles away. He has a few people’s numbers, but he knows they all would have expected some quick, dirty fuck, and the thought of that makes him want to vomit. And Ramsay was right, Theon couldn’t have gone with him. Wherever he took Sansa, it would be a disaster if Theon knew about it. He can barely hold it together just thinking about it.

He’s staring down into his coffee, which is rapidly becoming cold, when Jon says, “He hasn’t hurt you or anything, right? Bolton?”

Theon’s head shoots up. “Why would you even ask that?”

“We’ve all heard the stories, come on. And you and I both know there’s truth to them.” Jon’s biting at his thumb nail and Theon wants to scream at him to stop. It’s disgusting. Theon used to bite his nails until they bled, he knows. “Those pictures, Theon, we both saw them." Theon flinches at the mention, flashes of open wounds and wrists tied with rope in his mind. Three dead girls in all, that they know of. Theon suspects there have been more.

"He’s fucked up," Jon says, so matter-of-fact it makes Theon ache. He wishes he was still able to feel so simply about this situation. "And it's not fucking fair. There are cold cases with families who will never have answers, all because Bolton's father is cozy with cops and has been able to pay off witnesses—if I didn’t already know how this shit works, I'd be trying to get this story out there. Hell. I’m thinking about reporting on it, anyway, even without the evidence.”

Theon stills. Really, it would be for the best. Everyone would hate him substantially less if he said Ramsay pushed Sansa, if he told Jon that right now. He’d be a tearful witness, rather than the defendant himself. But. He’s had Ramsay on top of him before, choking the life out of him, making him bleed. The things he could do to Theon, to Jon, to Robb, to _anyone_ Theon cares about are endless. And he could just imagine Ramsay getting off, a well-oiled, paid-for defense attorney at his side, his father protecting the family name at all costs.

And then there’s the pictures of Ramsays’ phone, the fact that Theon carried the body down the stairs, the last few months of his life on public display. Everyone would know what he’s done and who he’s become. Not a Stark, not a Greyjoy—not even Theon, whoever that is. He doesn’t even know himself anymore.

“No,” he says. “Don’t. “

“Theon—“

“You have no idea what he’s like!” Theon slams his coffee cup down on the table and the cold, brown liquid splashes over the sides. “He’d never be convicted anyway. Those reports weren't even filed. You said you know how this works—well, I don't know if you do. I don't think you know what these people are capable of.” Ramsay's told him—he knows where to get rid of people, he knows where they won’t be found. “And if I don't back you up, if I don't say I saw those documents and those pictures, too, then you have nothing.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Jon swears, standing up in a flash. He collects both of their mugs and stomps off to the kitchen, reminding Theon of Catelyn for one, startling moment. His anger is sharp and pointed, weighing heavy on the entirety of the dismally small apartment.

Theon stares at the cherrywood of the coffee table, his heart pounding with realization. Ramsay is the only one who’s been next to him all this time, the only one who listens to and validates his anger, the only one who hurts him in the ways he deserves to be hurt. Last night, he saved Theon’s life. He protected him. Theon wishes he’d gone with him and watched him dig the whole six feet deep. They could have fucked in the back of his car, soil under Ramsay’s fingernails and the smell of decay in the air.

He gets up and goes in the bathroom, grabbing his rumpled suit from the floor and taking it with him. He looks like shit, of course, when he looks in the mirror. His hair is limp and dull, his eyes are bloodshot, his skin is pale. His suit makes him look marginally better, but that’s all. He uses his cell phone to make a call while running away in the sink and scrubbing at his hands while he talks.

Back out in the living room, Jon has the television on and is still biting at his nails. A newswoman is talking about a methane gas explosion in northern Highgarden, six injured and three dead.

“I’m heading out,” Theon says.

Jon looks at him, comically dismayed. “Theon, if you would just listen to me.”

Theon slams the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Ramsay picks him up a block away and drives him back to his suite.

Inside, Theon pauses when he realizes he hasn’t taken out the garbage in a week and the whole place smells rotten. He’s not really sure it matters anymore. Ramsay certainly doesn’t seem to mind.

He puts his car keys on the counter and takes his shoes off in the foyer. He folds his suit jacket over his arm and loosens his tie. He didn’t take a shower last night and he’s starting to think he should have. He’s starting to _feel_ unclean, like a layer of grime is on his skin. He splashed some water on his face back in Jon’s bathroom and he washed his hands so vigorously that they’re still slightly pink, but it wasn’t nearly enough. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ramsay stops him with a shake of his head.

“Come on,” he says, inclining his head towards Theon’s bedroom. Theon follows, dropping his suit jacket onto the floor. He’ll have to send it in to the dry cleaners later this week.

The bedroom is dark, the blinds are closed, and only a dim glow of light is present. The bed was made while he was gone and Theon wonders, then, if he really did remember to take the garbage out or not. And if he did remember, then what is that smell? He lets Ramsay strip him, playing a passive role in the action at best. His belt falls to the floor with a _clink_ and he’s been wearing the same boxers for two days. He’s never done that before.

Ramsay kisses him like he’s dying and Theon responds in kind. He puts all of his energy into it, allowing Ramsay to easily manhandle him onto the bed.

Theon wonders, sometimes, if Ramsay wants to cut him open. Right now, he’d let Ramsay do it. A long, red stripe down his abdomen. Broken ribs. Exposed organs. God, but why is he still alive?

Ramsay is never fully naked, right now he has on an undershirt and an unearned sense of pride that Theon will never be able to remove from his skin, turn inside out, and throw to the floor. He ruts against Theon almost painfully and Theon gasps, his eyes burning from exhaustion and his arms numb. He shudders, his legs around Ramsay’s thighs and his cock barely half-hard. None of this appeals to him, but it’s also the only thing he really has right now. It may be the only thing he’ll ever have. At this moment, Ramsay could skin him alive and Theon would thank him for it.

Still, when Ramsay’s hands round his shoulders and slip towards his neck, he turns his head away. “No,” he says, sick with the feeling of wanting this to be over. All he can think of is long, red hair between Ramsay’s fingers. “Stop.”

Ramsay doesn’t listen and his hands are heavy around Theon’s neck, heavy and hot.

“Iron,” Theon says, remembering himself for a brief moment. That word, one he chose, something he hates and loves in equal measure.

Ramsay presses hard and Theon startles, he kicks without thinking, his knee colliding with Ramsay’s thigh.

“Iron,” he says again, barely gasping it out this time, black spots in his vision but he doesn’t struggle. This is probably, he thinks, what he deserves.

He blinks and he’s alone, lying in his bed and staring up at the ceiling in the dark. He closes his eyes again and feels the press of hands against his throat even though there’s no one there. He wonders what time it is and lays still for a moment that lasts forever, waiting for everything to come back to him.

When it doesn’t, he sits up and inches off the bed. He walks to the bathroom and turns on the light. He looks in the mirror.

Bruises—purple and mottling and in the shape of hands—encircle his neck like the collar of a shirt. He stares at the marks dully. They’re very dark and he doesn’t want to touch them, scared they’ll hurt more if he does. The ache that he feels now is barely there, pulsating underneath his skin. He wishes Ramsay was here because he’s not sure what to do and, come to think of it, when did Ramsay leave?

He heads for the kitchen, walking slowly and without much purpose. The door to the fridge is wide open and he closes it reflexively. He stands by the counter and stares at the now-empty fruit bowl. Someone’s been refilling it for months, but now it’s just empty. He’s not sure why. Maybe someone forgot to do their job, or maybe he forgot to do his.

There’s a sudden noise, the creak of floorboards, and he stares down the hallway at the door to his bedroom, holding his breath and ready to run.

Ramsay emerges from the bedroom, half-dressed and yawning, rubbing at his jaw. Theon stares.

“Busy day,” Ramsay says, and Theon doesn’t reply, unsure of if he’s being sarcastic or not. Unsure of what day it is, suddenly. He’s sure he’s missing something here and his mind races as he watches Ramsay go to the fridge and pull the door open. “There’s nothing in here. Don’t you ever go shopping?”

“No, I. I usually order room service.” He thinks, anyway. He feels like someone rewired his brain while he was sleeping. If he even slept. “Ramsay?” he says. Ramsay doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything to show that he heard Theon, but Theon continues anyway. “What do I do—what should I do about this?”

He has a hand hovering by his neck and Ramsay turns to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if anyone saw. They’d ask questions that I wouldn’t know how to answer.”

“Wear a scarf.”

“It’s spring, I feel like that would be. I don’t know, suspicious?”

“Well, fuck.” Ramsay slams the fridge door shut and the whole thing shudders in fear of him. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to do it.”

Theon nods, mutely, because—maybe he did ask for it. He can’t remember. There’s something missing and, honestly, what reason would Ramsay have to lie?

“Sorry,” he says, so quietly that he thinks that maybe he didn’t say it at all. He looks towards the windows, towards the sky outside. It’s on fire with the setting sun, orange and pink and fading red.

“I saw someone die the other day.” Ramsay’s words seem to come to him from somewhere else, like a crackling, static-laced message from someone who has poor reception. Theon can’t bear to look at him. “I’ve seen it before, but this was the first time I really paid attention and I’m so glad I did.”

“I know,” Theon says, “I was there, too.” He shakes with regret and thinks that it would have been easier if she bled and his hands had been covered in red. Instead, there is only a feeling in his gut of what should have been.

“You were,” Ramsay agrees. “But I don’t think you were watching like I was. I don’t think we saw the same thing, Reek.”

There’s the feeling of ice against his skin. Nothing burns like the cold and Theon finally realizes that wherever Sansa is buried, he’s there too, six feet under and never coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in another universe i wrote an april fool's day chapter where these two are in a healthy relationship.
> 
> thanks for all the comments as always, they really make my day!


	10. how it feels to take a fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The buzzing of overhead fluorescent lights as you stare into a oneway mirror and see yourself reflected there.

The story breaks like waves against the shore and there’s a broken lamp on the floor. The lampshade’s been knocked off and there’s porcelain strewn about. Theon’s sitting next to it, his face pressed against his knees, waiting.

“What we do know,” the woman on the television says, “is that she left the party alone.”

Theon reaches out and presses his thumb against one of the pieces of porcelain, a shock of white against the pink of his skin, against the brown, dried blood under his fingernails. His phone is vibrating on the floor next to him and he hasn’t answered it in three days, four days, two days—something. He has to sometime, he has to open his mouth, he can’t, but he has to, so he does.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds the phone up to his ear.

“Theon? Theon are you there?” It’s Robb, frantic and scared. Theon’s only heard him like this a few times before. One time it was because his dog went missing, a dog Theon had never much liked. They’d looked for the dog for hours, Robb yelling his name loud around playgrounds and neighborhoods, and then they’d found him curled up by the back door of the Stark house. Robb had said his name ( _Grey_ ) with such happiness that Theon had thought he might fall apart out of sheer relief.

“Yeah,” Theon says, realizing as soon as he opens his mouth that he’s thirsty like he’s never been before. His mouth is dry in the worst way and his throat is scratchy, painful. “Yes. Robb—I know. I’m. I’m so sorry.”

“You’ll help, right?” Robb says, like he didn’t even hear the words Theon just said. “Or. I don’t know. I just need you here. Everything’s coming apart and I’m trying to hold it together. Mom’s a wreck, what do I—Theon, what do I do?”

There was a time when Theon thought that maybe he could finally be someone’s big brother, and it had seemed perfect. There he was, the youngest of three brothers, and there Robb was, the eldest in his own family. Both with an emptiness on one side of them that the other could fill. Theon had latched on tight, fuck, he’d never wanted to let go. He still doesn’t. He’ll be there, of course he will. He tells Robb this with conviction, almost sobs when he hears the response.

“Love you,” Robb says, “so much. I just need you to know. I’ve been telling everyone all day. I can’t remember—I can’t remember the last time I told her, and now—“

“She knew,” Theon says, because that was always why he wanted to be a Stark. The knowing. Knowing that you belonged, knowing you were loved. Knowing who you were. “There’s no way she didn’t. No way she doesn’t. I’ll be over in…an hour. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Yeah. I have to go. I’ll see you then.”

 

* * *

 

Theon doesn’t know what to wear so he picks things at random from his closet and sets them out on his bed, a mismatch of seasons and colors that contrast with the bedspread. His drive to the Stark house is done in a haze. It’s the first time he’s left the resort in the past three days, He’s been ordering minimal room service and claiming that he’s not feeling well. The good news is that he looks it. He doubts anyone will be suspicious.

There are paps in front of the gates, spilling onto the lawn, and Theon drives by them, looking forward and ignoring their yells. He’s never seen press like this. Senate reelections get a handful of people at most and when he was in rehab he made a point to slip out the back door whenever he could. People love a tragedy, he thinks, and then immediately feels bad. Because this isn’t a tragedy yet, as far as anyone knows.

He’s not even out of the car yet before he realizes he didn’t change out of his t-shirt and flannel pants, he left his outfit on the bed. The shirt he has on isn’t even his, it’s Ramsay’s. Something he left on the floor the other day, the other night, a week ago. He gets out of the car anyway, hoping he looks like he was in a hurry more than anything.

It turns out not to matter. Once he’s inside he’s enveloped in the crushing atmosphere of fear. There are police officers in the kitchen talking to Cat. Arya and Bran are on one of the couches in the sitting room, bundled under a throw with their heads close together, talking quietly. Robb is sitting at the top of the stairs and Theon goes to him, sits down next to him, and can't believe he hasn't been here since the beginning.

Neither of them say anything for an eternity. Theon dies and lives again. Everything he’s ever done in his life—none of it changes. And he ends up here all over again, with apologies he can’t say threatening to spill out of his mouth.

“There’s going to be a search party,” Robb finally says, voice scratchy, tone empty. “The police already have people out looking, but obviously we have to do more.”

Theon nods. “I’ll come,” he says, though he can think of nothing he wants to do less than search for someone who’s already dead.

Robb doesn’t move. He continues staring forward. “What was she like,” he says, hands clasped in front of his mouth, “that night? The last—when you saw her?”

“Funny,” Theon says and he doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it. His voice cracks and his eyes are watery. “She was funny and—so fucking beautiful, of course.”

“Of course,” Robb laughs, tears caught in his throat. “I used to get so mad when I was in high school and she’d be in the bathroom for hours in the morning.”

“Yeah.” Theon stares at the knee of his pants, the crossing blue and green and white lines, soft against his skin. Something he shouldn’t have. “She, um. Remember when she had that crush on Loras Tyrell?”

“Oh, fuck. I do. Why?”

“We were talking about it, that night. The rose he gave her.”

“That fucking—that fucking rose. Mom threw it away after a month and she cried all night, until.”

“Until?” Theon leans his shoulder against Robb’s. He shouldn’t, but he does. Robb leans back and he’s shaking. Theon is only just barely keeping himself together.

“I had just gotten my driver’s license,” Robb says, like he’s only just remembering this now. One of those memories you have stored away for moments like these. “I asked her if she wanted to get ice cream. It was winter, but that was kind of our thing. Ice cream in winter. She’d always get sprinkles. We went and we talked about boys. I didn’t know how to talk about boys, but I did it. I would have done anything to make her stop crying.”

The stairwell is quiet and they stay there like that, leaning against one another. Theon can hear people talking throughout the rest of the house, the sound of the air conditioning kicking on, someone closing a door. He focuses on anything he can besides the sound of Robb trying not to cry. He wishes there was something he could do, because he understands what Robb is saying. That feeling of wanting to do anything to keep one person away from sadness. But Theon is the one who brought him to this place, he’s the reason they’re here right now. And there’s nothing he can do.

There’s the quiet _click-click_ of heels and Cat appears at the bottom of the stairs, placing a hand on the bannister. She’s in a bottle-green top and dark grey pants with her hair pinned back. She looks impeccable, but exhausted, like someone who’s used to dealing with the worst life has to offer.

“The police want to talk to you,” she says. It takes Theon a moment to realize she’s talking to him. Robb leans away from him and he’s stuck in place, cold from the sudden lack of touch. Cat sniffs and looks away. “They’re trying to talk to everyone who was at the event at the Capitol, it’s. It would help a lot.”

“Right. Of course.” Theon stands up and heads down the stairs. He leaves Cat to ascend the stairs towards her son, hushed voices behind him.

Whenever Theon hears Cat speak to him he assumes she comes from a place of disdain and dislike—but when she speaks to Robb her voice is soft and comforting, like a mother’s voice should be. It's one of the things that always served to remind him that he would never be a Stark, no matter how hard he tried.

The walk to the kitchen is shorter than he wants it to be. He wants long minutes and hours to go over his story in his head, but he’s barely afforded thirty seconds before he’s stepping on to the porcelain tile floors, off-white under his feet. He’s always liked the Stark kitchen, with its balance of brightness and subdued colors. Greens and browns and whites surround him and it’s comforting for a brief second. Then he sees the cop.

She’s tall—massive, really, but it doesn’t seem polite to think that—with short blonde hair a stern look on her face. She seems like the type of person Theon would have made fun of in high school for her masculine frame and lack of makeup.

Now he feels uncomfortable in her presence. He reaches down to button his suit jacket before he realizes that he’s not wearing one. The best he can do is square his shoulders and stand up a little straighter.

“Hello,” he says, smiling and going for the passing appearance of nonchalance. As if that’s even possible in this situation.

She has a radio on her hip and shining silver handcuffs, but no visible firearm. “Theon Greyjoy,” she says, with a sort of learned presumption. He can immediately tell that she did not grow up around all of this, that she is immensely uncomfortable in this environment. “I’m Officer Brienne Tarth.” She offers her hand and he takes it, surprised by the firmness of her grip. Handshakes, in his experience, are annoying and weak, like the bite of a mosquito. The expression on her face doesn’t change throughout and that only unnerves him more.

“I just have a few questions,” she says, falling back into default cop pose: her hands on her hips. Close, very close, to those handcuffs. “If you’d care to sit down?”

“Okay,” Theon says, feeling sweat at the back of his neck. She pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and gestures for him to do the same. As he does, he wonders if his eyes are bloodshot and what she thinks of that. Maybe that he’s tired, maybe that he’s high, maybe that he’s been crying. Maybe all three. He suddenly remembers he hasn’t brushed his teeth in more than a couple days. He can’t smile now.

Theon half expects her to pull out a little notebook and pen, but she doesn’t. She just launches right into it, with: “You were with Sansa Stark four nights ago, at the Capitol Charity Dinner?”

“Well, sort of.” Theon has a planned amount of distance he wants to put between him and Sansa, just enough to make a fuzzy recollection of her whereabouts that night understandable. “I went by myself, actually, but she sat at the same table as me for a few hours.”

“And how did she seem? Her mood?” Brienne’s blue eyes have zeroed in on him already and he thinks that, despite her general unattractiveness, she has pretty, intense eyes.

Theon fights the itch he has to cross his arms. It’s a classic defensive move, he tells himself, stop it. “She was actually in a good mood, um. For being there.”

“For being there?”

“Well. It wasn’t exactly the party of the century.”

“Right. You like parties, Theon?”

“Not anymore.” Theon’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, holding himself back from snapping at her. He knows that’s what she wants. She probably thinks it’ll be easy to trick him into showing a fast temper, but he feels surprisingly calm, all things considered. “But Sansa—we were joking around and stuff. Normal things. There was this whole thing going on with the president’s brother.”

Brienne’s eyebrows raise. “Renly Baratheon?”

“Uh, yeah,” Theon says, somewhat surprised by her interest. She’s trying to hide it but—oh. She’s one of them, he realizes. He’s never been a big fan of the president’s brother himself (he's too ostentatious, honestly), but he’s always got his face on the front of gossip magazines looking handsome and scandalous. Women apparently, ironically, love the guy.

Theon is careful to smile without showing his teeth. “It was just rumors, you know, about the person he’s dating. Everyone was so focused on that. It was sort of the main topic of the night.”

Brienne sniffs and looks to the floor for a moment, just for a second, but Theon already knows her thoughts are somewhere else.

“Did—did you see Sansa leave with anyone?” she says, sounding more subdued than before.

“I left before she did, actually.”

“By yourself?”

“With Ramsay Bolton.”

“Oh? Would you care to elaborate?”

Theon always has to elaborate, when it comes to Ramsay. “Sure,” he says. This is the easy part. “He was at the charity dinner as well, sitting at the same table. We left early and went driving.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“No. Just around. It’s hard to stop anywhere, because then it becomes some weird news story. I’m sure you understand.”

Brienne smiles thinly and Theon knows it’s because she doesn’t understand. He knows it’s terrible of him, but it’s also very easy to stick a knife into a wound that already exists—there’s no resistance that way. “I have to ask,” she says, clearly shifting the conversation, ignoring what he said, “does this mean the two of you had come to the dinner in the same car? If you left together, I mean.”

“No, like I said earlier—I came alone. But Ramsay left his car in the parking garage for a while.”

“Overnight?” Curious, curious, and Brienne doesn’t look like a cat but—still. Theon thinks Ramsay would be tempted to destroy her.

“No!” Theon laughs, covering his mouth with his hand, like the idea is ridiculous. “I dropped him off later on, when the dinner was long over.”

“And then?”

“I went—well, I went to a friend’s place.”

“A friend’s?”

Theon doesn’t appreciate her tone. As if she can’t believe he has friends. “Jon Snow, if you must know. I’d been meaning to go see him for a few weeks, and I was already out.” He shrugs. This woman better believe him. He’s not sure what will happen to her if she doesn’t. “We talked and I stayed on his couch for the night. Is there a reason you need to know all this?”

A brief smile, as fake as Theon’s own. “It’s all routine, we’re talking to everyone who was there—speaking of, do you think you’d be able to get me in contact with Ramsay Bolton?”

Theon wishes, for a moment, that he had the energy to put up a fight. He imagines a scuffle in this kitchen. Blood on the tiles and broken plates and bowls. Throwing salt shakers, ladles and spoons. Flipping over the kitchen table. He thinks about running out the front door, down the driveway. Driving his car out onto the road and never coming back. He shouldn’t have come here today or ever. He should have stayed in Pyke, next to the faded colors of his mother and the crashing waves of the sea.

He doesn’t belong here and he never has.

“Theon?” Blue eyes looking at him with genuine concern. This woman, this cop, this Brienne—she’s a nice person, a kind person underneath a hardened exterior. It matters to Theon that she has a crush on the president’s brother, it matters to him that she’s here right now, and it matters to him that she probably felt the way he did as a teenager. Awkward and out of place, no matter what he did. A lack of confidence constantly threatening to pour over the edges, like a cup too full of water.

“I don’t—It probably isn’t a good idea.” Theon wonders if she’s ever seen the pictures of the bodies, if she ever saw the forged police reports, if she even has _any_ idea.

He doesn’t think anyone ever will.

She’s looking at him oddly now and he knows he’s just sent up a red flag.

“Um,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. There’s stubble there, the three day old beginnings of a beard, the kind of thing he never lets happen. “Sorry I just—I haven’t been sleeping well. I can give you his number, I just know he’s busy with his dad’s campaign.”

Brienne nods, looking sympathetic but still suspicious. He has to look Ramsay’s number up in his phone and he gives it to her while staring at his texts. _Done_ , the last one says. Theon never replied.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Brienne says, standing up and pushing the chair in. She seems polite to a fault, the sort of person who is constantly trying to make up for her rough edges.

Theon nods, his eyes still on his phone. He listens to her walk away, to the sound of voices in the hallway. As soon as he knows he’s alone, he leaves.

This isn’t his home anymore and he’s starting to think that it never was.

There's somewhere else he needs to go.

And there's someone else he has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update! these are going to be lagging from now on, since this is the last chapter in my reserves. don't expect another one until june, because i'm crushed under papers/finals/two jobs/an internship/volunteering/still having to sleep once all that is done. i'm expecting this fic to hit around twenty chapters overall, on another note, so we're about halfway through here. comments here are always welcome and appreciated and hey, feel free to follow me over on tumblr @ mismania. wow, cool!


	11. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in·ter·lude  
> ˈin(t)ərˌlo͞od/  
> noun  
> 1\. an intervening period of time.  
> synonyms: interval, intermission, break, recess, pause, respite, rest, breathing space, halt, gap, stop, stoppage, hiatus, lull  
> "the scene in the hotel was a welcome interlude in this relentlessly high-paced adventure"

Ramsay says, “Reek,” and Theon doesn’t know what to do.

He’s sitting on the couch, his laptop in front of him, reading news stories and trying not to lose his mind. It’s something he didn’t have to think about until recently. He’s had his moments, slipped neatly in-between the cracks of two families and unsure of what to call himself, but this.

This is something different altogether.

He reloads the homepage of Politico for the millionth time. Nothing changes. Roose Bolton has surpassed Robb in the polls the past few days and there have been a half a dozen articles about why that happened. The thick and thin of it seems to be that while there is national sympathy for the Stark family, it’s hard for anyone to get energized behind a suspended campaign.

Theon remembers hearing that term— _suspended_ —when he was younger and thinking of yellow slips handed to him by teachers and secretaries in the principal’s office. But now he knows it’s more like a corpse with a noose around its neck or dust in a ray of sun that’s streaming through an open window. Suspended is tantamount to death, synonymous to being trapped in the light of an early morning, immovable. Robb is harried, his family is in crisis, and, sure, everyone feels bad for him but you don’t fucking vote for the person you feel bad for.

The latest headline is _Stark Slips and Bolton Battens Down_ , a boldface title below a picture of Roose Bolton listening to something one of his aides is saying. There haven’t been any decent pictures of Robb in at least a week, not since his team sent out a press release asking for the paps to stay away from the house and any official search party business. _Search for Sansa Stark Goes Cold_ is another headline further down the page, with a smiling picture of her from some gala or another. It makes Theon want to vomit.

He’s been doing a lot of that—acid and bile in the back of his throat and none of his food staying down. He hasn’t eaten at all today, it seems beyond pointless. He refreshes the page again. Nothing.

“Reek,” Ramsay says, again, closer this time. Theon watches as his laptop is shut by someone else’s hand. For some reason, the action confuses him. “What are you doing?” Ramsay asks, his voice stuck somewhere between concerned and amused, like he can’t decide which emotion to go with. That type of thing doesn't come naturally to him.

Theon clears his throat. “I’m waiting for them to find her.”

“Oh.” He’s chosen amused, then, which isn't out of the ordinary. Theon can’t work out what’s so funny. “They won’t.”

“It’s hard to be sure when I don’t—“ Theon stops himself, shakes his head, looks away. It’s only then that he realizes they’re not in his suite at the resort. They’re in a hotel. Ramsay’s room? Their room? The curtains are drawn over the wall to wall windows and the bed looks like it was slept in last night.

“When you don’t what?”

“Well—when I don’t even know where she is.”

“You don’t trust me, Reek?”

“What is—it’s not about whether I trust you or not. And why do you keep calling me that?”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Theon itches to open his laptop again. The story could break at any time, but he gets the feeling that he’s not supposed to open his laptop again. And he wants to get up and go in the bathroom, lock the door tight, but he knows he’ll only dry heave in the yellow lighting and stare at himself in the mirror. It might give him a chance to try and piece together how he got here, but at the same time—at the same time he doesn’t really _want_ to know.

“Where’s my phone?” he asks suddenly, keeping his voice as nonchalant as he can, though panic is rising up in him like helium-filled balloon that’s about to pop.

“Charging on the bedside table,” Ramsay says, in a tone that makes Theon feel silly for worrying that he might have taken it away. He gets up and walks to the other side of the room, pretending not to pay attention as Ramsay peeks out the window.

His phone is blinking blue at him with missed messages and, for once in his life, he has more missed calls that his phone can handle. He has to scroll through a list of them: Robb, Robb, Asha, an unknown number three times in a row that he suspects is either a reporter or that Brienne woman, and Robb again. There are more unknown numbers after that, Jon Snow twice, and then the only person whose name doesn't make him want to run towards the bathroom, Roose Bolton. Strange how things work out.

“Does your dad know we’re here?” Theon asks, thumb hovering over Roose’s name.

“Oh, sure,” Ramsay says, like someone _knowing_ something is less a fact and more a feeling. “He’s a worrier, he worries after me.”

Theon would call Roose Bolton a lot of things, but a worrier isn’t one of them. Still, he puts his phone down and chooses not to venture into his voicemails. It seems pointless. He knows what he’ll hear there, a plight of confusion and concern, requests for quotes and answers to questions. Robb, he’s sure, will be asking after him to come back to the Stark house and he has no intention of that. He can barely stomach the thought of walking in there again.

“The place I was staying at—“

“You checked out the other day,” Ramsay supplies, oddly helpful. “Paid for the broken lamp. They were quite understanding and sympathetic.”

Theon nods, like that clears everything up. He sits down by his shut laptop and watches Ramsay walk around their room, aimless. It occurs to him, suddenly, that this is a dangerous thing. That he was wrong, when they first met, to decide Ramsay would be an easy lay and not much else. His throat is dry at the thought, the realization, that he is here to keep Ramsay from getting bored.

 _Ramsay seems to like you_ , Roose Bolton had said not so long ago.

“Ramsay,” he says, weakly.

“Yes, Reek?”

“What do you need me to do?”

Ramsay turns away from the window, eyes shining as the curtain falls back into place and the room becomes dark once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when (if?) i go back and edit this fic i'll probably add this chapter to the last one because it's obviously very short and rounds out that chapter as a whole better. the perils of posting a wip, i suppose! in any case, let me know what you think. this fic is about to turn a corner of sorts and i'm excited to share it!


	12. mind my wicked words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four letter word, rhymes with...
> 
>  
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jeo3an2M_Lo)

There’s a knock at the door and Reek’s eyes open wide.

_Weak_ burns on his shoulder, his most recent word. He listens for the knocking to come again, waits long moments with his breath held, but there’s only silence. Sometimes his brain has to make excuses to wake up.

His morning routine is etched into his skin, tattooed across his heart. Get out of bed, make yourself presentable, get to work. It’s the second task that gives him the most trouble. Of course, he’ll never really be presentable. His hair is tough to comb through and he has to wear his suit even in the summertime. The jacket and slacks are hanging from the diagonal clothesline in his tiny bathroom, grey and bordering on being threadbare. The fabric of the pants is scratchy against his thighs, the jacket too loose for his frame.

It’s uncomfortable, but Ramsay finds it annoying to be reminded constantly of the things he’s done and Reek sees little reason to upset him.

He likes to imagine—he’s fooled himself—that he keeps Ramsay in line. It’s the only thing he’s good at, so of course it’s not actually true.

There’s a knock at his door, an actual one, as he finishes his half-windsor knot, a clunkier practice than it used to be, his hands a mess of rushed nerves.

“Yes?” he says, stepping into his shoes and patting at his stomach, pulling at the sleeves of his suit jacket. Presentable. Passable. He has to be, he can’t be anything else.

The door opens slowly and then there’s little Jeyne Poole wilting in his doorway, dressed in a silk blouse, a smart pencil skirt, and low-to-the-ground heels. Her hair is limp and there are bags under her eyes.

“Ramsay needs you,” she says in her whisper-voice. Ramsay nearly choked her to death two months ago, a scene for which Reek was present. He sees most things here, it’s sort of what he does. Witnesses things. Watches. Doesn’t interfere. It’s probably what Ramsay needs him to do now.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, which makes her huff as she turns away and stalks down the hall. It’s not quite _stalking_ though, more like a hurried pace. She’s always running away. It’s hard to blame her.

Reek waits a moment and then follows her receding footsteps, listening as the _clack_ of her heels takes her to the library at the left of the stairs. It’s where she spends most of her time, surrounded by books. Reek has only been in the room a few times. He knows the importance of having one’s own space, these days. He takes the stairs, himself. Ramsay will be in his office, as usual.

He knows where the office is.

It used to be Robb’s.

It’s strange to walk through a place he’s lived in twice, but that’s never actually been his home. Stranger still to see the decorative changes. To see the new and old furniture mixed. Ornate desks and tables that come with the place next to darkly upholstered, brand new couches and chairs. There are no stains in this house now that it belongs to the Boltons’, though it’s not for a lack of spills.

Ramsay’s office is in the back corner of the first floor, at the end of a hall that used to be full of mirrors and paintings. The walls are empty now, barren. Reek feels a sort of comfort walking past them. He’s not sure he could handle his reflection—no, he knows he couldn’t. There’s something in his eyes these days that he can’t escape.

He reaches the imposing, dark wood door and knocks with the side of his palm.

“Reek?”

“Yes.” His voice is scratchy, useless, embarrassing.

“Come in.”

Reek opens the door and there’s Ramsay, sitting behind his desk. His back is to Reek, his face turned towards the window behind him. The sprawling grounds spread out behind the office, green and wet. It’s been a rainy spring, full of storms and mud and flash floods.

“You want—wanted me?” Reek flinches, just barely, as Ramsay swivels in his chair to face him. It’s strange, somehow, how little Ramsay’s face has changed. Reek feels that it should have changed to something monstrous. A rubber Halloween mask representation of ugliness and malice developing over the past year. But he looks the same as ever, a person, a monster in his own ways. Reek has mastered the art of staying in place, of stopping himself from taking a step back when Ramsay’s eyes meet his.

“Oh, yes,” Ramsay says, as if he’d forgotten there was a reason he asked Reek to join him here. He has his hands folded on top of the desk, a smile that looks like it was slapdash painted on his face. A mockery of an inviting atmosphere. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Reek stays quiet. In most situations it’s the right thing to do with Ramsay.

The thing about Ramsay that has stayed untouched more than anything else are his eyes. Searching, searching, spotlights in the dark. Reek sees them when he’s trying to sleep. They don’t let him escape. He’s held under their gaze now, pinned down like some weak animal in an exhibit, staying still in the hopes that Ramsay’s eyes might pass him over, finally.

Ramsay’s lips form the words and Reek’s mind goes blank. All he can hear is his heart in his ears, the beating loud as funeral drums.

_They found her_.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a landslide win.

The grieving Starks were ushered to the fringe of the political world, a sad but seemingly unavoidable fate. Pundits on cable news channels lamented the fall of Robb Stark, the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the family. Violence had followed the family for years, they noted, dredging up the death of an aunt most people had forgotten about. At some point, the accident that took Ned Stark and the disappearance of his daughter Sansa started to seem less like tragedies and more like things that were always going to happen, no matter what.

Once that corner was turned, it was back to business as usual.

These days, Reek wears a basic two-button wool suit in navy with a tie he found crumpled up on the floor. Silk, maybe. Soft against his fingers so, yes, probably silk.

His palms are sweaty where they rest on his knees, now, as he watches the television mounted on the wall in the other room. He can just see it from where he’s sitting, through the open doorway of the dining room. There’s a baseball game on, a pitcher on the mound, a tight windup and—strike.

_Clink_. Reek flinches, but keeps his gaze steady. The pitcher is flexing his arm, walking a few paces back and forth. _Clink clink_. The back of the pitcher’s shirt says WATERS in big, block letters. He throws with snap-sure precision. Strike two. _Clink_. A pause. _Clink clink_. Reek wants to watch, wait and see if the pitcher gets three strikes, but it’s useless. He looks at Ramsay, who is staring at him while he hits his fork against the side of his half empty glass, leaning back in the high-back, wooden chair he’s sitting in.

_Clink_. “I didn’t realize you were a baseball fan.”

“I’m not.” Reek clears his throat. “I was never able to, you know. Follow the rules.”

“Ha!” Ramsay’s eyes light up, the way they do when he’s found an acute and cutting weakness. He drops his fork and it clatters to the side, forgotten. “I can see it. You’d have been running around, unsure of what to do. Getting in everyone’s way. Not much has changed has it?”

Reek hadn’t meant playing baseball, just watching it. He’s fairly sure he never tried to actually play. And if he did—he doesn’t want to think about it. But he says,”No, I suppose not,” anyway.

This is just how things are now.

 

* * *

 

 

Roose Bolton spends most of his time in the Capitol, with a deluge of things to catch up on and a sizable highrise apartment to stay in.

He’s gave Ramsay rule of the government-issued house from the beginning.

Reek moved in because there’s nowhere else for him to go. A woman who he supposes must be his sister and a man who he supposes might have once been an almost-brother were, at one point, constantly telling him he was welcome to stay with them. He got sick of it a few months ago and it didn’t even bother him when Ramsay broke his phone, cracking the screen and pointing out how much better, how much quieter, things were without the incessant vibrating of text messages.

It _is_ quieter. Much. Reek can hear himself breathe now, can hear the creaking of the wood beams in the ceiling, the sound of footsteps outside his door at night. He can hear people talking down the hall, yelling, crying.

The house stirs when everyone else is sleeping and Reek listens to the sounds in the silence, the distant ticking of clocks and the slipslide of books being put back on shelves in the library down the hall. Doors being opened and closed with the care, or else shut with aplomb. Glass shattering, screaming, so much screaming, and then silence. There’s the clock ticking again in the background, counting down time.

It’s in those moments, the quietest ones of all, that Reek’s door opens. When he’s just about to fall asleep, twisted and curled around his sheets, eyes burning from exhaustion, the sliver of light from the hallway grows and envelopes him for one startling moment, and then recedes again like the waning tide.

He stays still on his side, like an animal playing dead, but he always gives himself away in the end. He flinches when Ramsay’s hands touch him, cold and demanding on his skin, pushing the hem of his shirt up.

“What are you, Reek?” Ramsay asks.

The first few times, Reek didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand the question. He became a sound down the hall that someone else had to listen to.

Now he’s prepared.

“Weak,” he says, “I’m weak.”

Ramsay makes the first cut and it barely even hurts anymore.

 

* * *

 

Jeyne Poole was unexpected. Some daughter of a politician, of course. A homely thing with a shriveling family name attached to her. Ramsay called her easy prey, though sometimes Reek thinks there’s something more to her than what Ramsay sees and, really, who is he to judge her.

She moved in six months ago, determined to keep everything clean and babbling about reading all the books in the library. Dinners were unbearable for the first week, with Reek shunted off to the side while Jeyne sent him furtive, confused glances and tried to make conversation with Ramsay like a normal person might.

Now she spends most of her nights curled up in one of the armchairs in the library. She tends to find excuses to go out during the day when she can and she’s twice so far taken weeklong trips back to her family’s estate.

Reek isn’t sure if he prefers her gone or around. There’s something comforting about another person tiptoeing around Ramsay’s bad moods, but he doesn’t like it when she sets Ramsay off. When Ramsay is mad at him, things are less complicated. He knows he deserves it, knows he’s done something wrong, knows this is the only place he has any right to inhabit anymore, anyway. But when Jeyne is on the receiving end of Ramsay’s wrath—something about that feels wrong. He can’t see what she did to deserve it. Even when she gets chatty, in her most ill-advised moments of reaching out and prodding at Ramsay, he can’t understand it.

He watches her get pushed around, watches as a dinner she makes one night gets flung at the wall, watches as Ramsay’s hands encircle her neck and her eyes bulge wide, near out of her head.

He watches and he knows, as he does, that this means he deserves what he gets all the more.

_Weak_ , the word burns on him like hot coals. He was right to pick that one. It describes him perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said this fic would be back by june and look at me, living up to promises! hopefully this chapter isn't too hard to follow, it's a little topsy turvy. also here's [a fun post](http://mismania.tumblr.com/post/146095302289/so-i-have-a-weirdly-comprehensive-list-of-theons) of all of theon's fashion choices throughout the fic so far on my tumblr, if you're so inclined. see y'all next time (and let me know what you think, if possible)!


	13. tired of this body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birds in the trees and dogs in the yard.
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o0WYiK52Dg)

“There was an anonymous tip made Thursday afternoon disclosing the whereabouts of Sansa Stark’s body,” Brienne Tarth says, looking stiff and uncomfortable when faced with a crowd. She shuffles the papers that are on the podium in front of her. “The caller gave us a location as well as landmarks to find the burial site. The body was—decomposed at a rate consistent with what we would expect if Ms. Stark died around the time she went missing.”

There’s a flurry of questions, the shout of voices and the shutter of cameras.

Reek, sitting on the couch in the living room, sunk into one of the cushions, stares forward at the television. He’s seen this woman before, in this house. Talked to her. Lied to her.

She raises her voice to speak over the crowd. “There are very few questions I can answer at this time. All I can confirm is that this is a tip we received and that a body has been found and identified as Sansa Stark. We are following up all possible leads, including who the anonymous caller may have been. While it is indeed possible the caller was involved with what happened to Ms. Stark, it is equally as possible that they were not.” Reek watches as this woman swallows, visibly upset, before shuffling her papers once more and collecting them in her hands. “I would like to remind everyone that the Stark family should be left alone during this extremely sensitive and emotional time. Thank you.”

The television continues to broadcast the news, moving on to a story about a local youth sports team. A kid smiling with a trophy. Like the news conference never happened.

“How can you stand to watch that?” Jeyne is in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Hm? Ah.”

Ramsay must be out or else locked in his office. Reek wishes he was with him. He doesn’t know what to do, sitting here alone.

“That whole business with Sansa. It’s like…everyone knew she was dead and now.” Jeyne shivers, like she’s cold, but she has a sweater on over her dress. Her voice is quiet, her eyes downcast and worried. “Her poor family, having to relive all of that.” She pauses, shifting in her stockings. She’s cradling a mug of what must be coffee in her hands and has huge, dark circles under her eyes. “And just. She used to live here. How messed up is that?”

Reek doesn’t know what to say. _Meek_ flashes with white-hot pain on his hipbone, so sudden he nearly gasps. “It—I try not to…think about it. That part of it.”

Jeyne nods, like he’s making perfect sense. Reek doesn’t understand her. She flashes her eyes at him in confusion and mistrust nearly every day. He knows she wonders why he’s here, why he stays, but he wonders the same things about her. He supposes he’s not one to judge. It took him his entire life to come to that conclusion.

“Do you like to read?”

“Read?”

“Mhm.” Jeyne’s eyes over a cup of coffee, wide and searching.

“I was never—no. I-I mean, I can obviously, but. I’ve never liked it much.”

“That’s a shame. The library is full of distractions.” She turns and walks back into the kitchen. She’s only a voice when she says, “The door is always open.”

 

* * *

 

Reek can tell when Ramsay is home by the barking of the dogs.

There’s five of them holed up in the backyard, snarling, their mouths full of spittle. Reek tries to stay away from them when he can, when he doesn’t have to feed them. Sometimes he thinks they’d eat him, what little meat is left on his bones, if he got too close. And they bark like no other when Ramsay is near until he snaps his fingers and quiets them. But he doesn’t often do that, he seems to like to see people squirm at the sight of their curved incisors.

When the barking starts, Reek scrambles up from the couch, pushing pillows back into place and heading to the front door. He knows its ridiculous, but. It’s easier to be there when the door swings open and have Ramsay say, “Oh, there you are,” than anything else.

“Yes, um.” Reek follows behind Ramsay as he sweeps past, door closing behind him. “The—did you see?”

“Of course I saw.” Ramsay sounds placidly cold, which is almost never a good thing. It either means Reek has done something wrong, or that he knows something Reek doesn’t. “With that hulking woman talking. I thought it would never end. Is there anything for dinner?”

Reek nods as they enter the kitchen, pointing towards the counter. Jeyne made something seasoned and warm, some kind of fish with a sauté and scallions over top. She’s become quite good at cooking over the past few months, Ramsay hasn’t thrown a plate of her food in weeks.

“But, Ramsay.”

“Will you be quiet? Pick that up. Follow me.”

Ramsay rarely eats in the kitchen, so it comes as no surprise when he leads Reek down the hallway into his office. Reek places the plate of food in front of him and stays standing, picking at his nails. He’s developed the habit recently, pushing and pulling at his cuticles until they bleed.

“You really need to stop worrying,” Ramsay says through a mouthful of food. “It’s annoying and useless, besides. It accomplishes nothing.”

“That’s—“ Reek starts, wanting to say it’s true, actually. He hadn’t thought of that. Ramsay was right to point it out. He’ll stop. But Ramsay shakes his head.

“Be quiet, I need to think.”

Reek nods and starts cleaning up around the room. it’s what he tends to do: create tasks for himself while he waits to be of use for Ramsay in some way. Today he decides to alphabetize the books in the bookshelf by author’s last name. Right now, they’re alphabetized by title. Reek likes the bookshelf and the books because Ramsay never pays them much mind. He doesn’t like when Reek touches things he actually uses, like his computer or his cell phone. It’s understandable. But the books are fair game. Reek honestly doubts Ramsay even notices when they get rearranged.

It takes over ten minutes for Ramsay to speak again, after a silence that's only interrupted by the sounds of eating, the clicks of Ramsay’s computer mouse and Reek sliding books back on the shelves.

“We should have a plan, if the police come by,” Ramsay says, pushing his empty plate forward and causing Reek to pause with _Secrets of the Yi Ti Emperors_ in hand.

“We?”

“Obviously.”

“Sorry, I just—“

“They may want to interview you again, since you were the last person to see her alive.”

“Was I?” Reek stares at the cover of the book, bright red with in-laid golden lettering. Ramsay's statement seems incorrect, somehow. “That all sounds…I’m not sure I can do that, I.”

“You’ll have to,” Ramsay says. “You’ll say you’re Theon Greyjoy and they’ll ask you questions.” He pauses, typing something on his computer for a moment. “They might ask you why you’re living here.”

“Why would anyone care…about that?” Reek is confused. His head hurts and he’s gripping the spine of the book tight, tighter than he should.

Ramsay laughs at that, as if Reek has just told a brilliant joke. “Odd, isn’t it? But if they do—what will you tell them, Reek?”

Bright eyes, bright eyes. Reek looks away. “I’m here because I want to be. Where else would I go?”

“Where else? Where else!” Ramsay is beside himself, smiling bright and standing from his chair. Reek takes the chance to smile back, the upturn of his mouth feeling strange and forced. Ramsay strides towards him and grabs the book out of his hand, putting it in the wrong space on the shelf. “Are you lying to me? Or are you telling the truth, Reek?”

Hands suddenly empty, Reek finds he isn’t sure what to do with them. They twist and turn and grip each other, desperate for something he doesn’t have. He swallows. “I—I'm not lying.”

“You’re here because you want to be?” Ramsay repeats, striking his words at a slightly higher chord, the way that Reek knows he must sound.

“Yes. Of course. No one else would even let me—“

“That’s right, no one else would let you live with them, no one else would want you to!” This is one of Ramsay’s favorite tracts and Reek nods in response, not only because he knows Ramsay wants him to agree but because he _does_. Because Ramsay is right. The next question is sudden and demanding. “Reek, what are you?”

It takes a second before it dawns on him, before he knows the answer.

“Nothing,” he says, hoarsely. “Nothing.”

 

* * *

 

A dog is howling in the yard down below, but the rest of the house is mercifully, strangely quiet.

It worries Reek, but not enough to propel him into action. He imagines someone else, someone braver would open his bedroom door and go down the hall to make sure no one is dead, to make sure the silence is not the product of some awful thing. But Reek isn’t that person, so instead he lies still in his bed and counts his breaths in and out, in and out.

He keeps his eyes open, closes them only to blink. It’s the worst when they slip closed without his permission, when he falls into fitful bouts of unconsciousness full of screaming and the sounds of flesh being ripped apart.

He much prefers the exhaustion.

There’s a sudden _clink_ that causes him to slow his breathing for a moment. It reminds him of Ramsay’s incessant noises at the dinner table and he imagines, for a crazed half-second, that Ramsay is standing outside his door with silverware and glasses, grinning madly in the darkness. Somehow that seems unlikely. Of all the things Ramsay has done, he can’t justify truly believing he would do _that_.

But it comes again. _Clink_. And then again, this time a smattering  _cl-cl-cl-clink_ as if some sort of bird is shrieking in the night, and suddenly Theon knows the sound is coming from outside, from something hitting his bedroom window.

He sucks in a breath. Ramsay may not be outside the window with supplies from the kitchen, but it doesn’t mean he’s not out there at all.

At the sound of another _clink_ he can’t stay still any longer, and he sits up slowly, grimacing as the bed creaks underneath him. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and slowly, slowly, eases off the edge. Here’s the good thing about paranoia: he knows where to step to avoid creaking floorboards as he makes his way to the window. Once there, he pulls back the curtain and blinks out into the darkness.

There’s nothing except the howling of one of Ramsay’s dogs, low and baying, and the moon half-lit in the sky. Reek stares up at it and is about to let the curtain fall to the side again when— _clink_.

Startled, Reek’s eyes roam the property. His room is at the side of the house, facing an expanse of woods. There, in the tree line, he realizes. That’s where someone is throwing things from. Rocks or pebbles, surely, but who—ah. It’s hard to mistake him.

Jon Snow with his arms above his head, waving them. Reek can’t see his facial expression, only his exaggerated movements. Jon has all black on, nearly blending in with the darkness of the night. Reek wonders what he’s doing here, this boy he used to know when he was someone else. Surely he can’t expect Reek to leave the house right now, to—what? Run away with him? Escape? There’s a certain arrogance in the assumption that Reek even _wants_ to leave, and he thinks that’s what bothers him the most about this.

He watches as Jon points to the tree he’s next to. Reek recognizes it. It has a small, wooden birdhouse hanging from one of its low branches, and its the birdhouse that Jon is really pointing to. He’s mouthing something that Reek doesn’t understand. He’s waving his arms again. And then he’s fading into the darkness, gone. Maybe never there at all.

Reek doesn’t fall back asleep. Ramsay’s dog won’t stop howling at the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the support as always. while i wasn't updating i was so excited to see this fic get to 1000 hits and now it's well above that...i appreciate every little bit of it, from those who read every chapter to those who gave the story a chance and decided it wasn't for them. thank you! and just a fyi: regular friday updates should be a thing again, likely until the end.


	14. no one lives there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The ghosts,“ he blurted. ”They whisper to me. They...they know my name.“_ — from A Ghost in Winterfell, A Dance with Dragons
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32udqal_lyQ)

All he has to do is open the door.

It’s a white door, wooden, with windowpane glass and a plain, cherry red curtain. The doorknob is brass, cold to the touch. Reek has reached out to grasp it twice now, and pulled away just as many times.

He can’t stop thinking about what will happen if Ramsay finds out, if someone sees him and tells. It could be anyone, from Jeyne to a neighbor to someone sitting in their car down the street, watching and waiting for him to do what Ramsay has told him not to. Reek isn’t even sure that Ramsay doesn’t have cameras hidden somewhere, that there’s not one trained on him right now. There’s no way to know, he tells himself, no way to know.

But it’s been three days since he saw Jon Snow outside his window at night. Three days spent not knowing what he was there for, why he was here, why he came to send some sort of message to _Reek_ , of all people.

He can’t handle the not knowing, either way.

The door opens without a creak and his heart is beating audibly, the sound of it echoing around him.

Mud squelches under his shoes as he makes his way towards the woods.

He’s positive, certain, that Ramsay won’t be back until later in the afternoon. He spends most weekdays as a consultant at his father’s business, making calls to donors in-between telling other people what to do. Reek watched him leave this morning and then waited a good half an hour to make sure he wouldn’t come back. It’s been another half an hour since then. He keeps recounting the minutes in his head, convincing himself that he’s going to be okay. Or trying to, anyway.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees nothing. No one. Looking to the right he sees an empty street. And to his left, no dogs, just an expanse of picket fencing that hides the yard backing up to the lake. Forward, and he’s almost to the woods, to the expanse of trees that mark the end of the grounds on this side of the property.

 _Don’t you boys dare go into those woods_ , Catelyn Stark used to say to him and Robb, during the early years of Ned's first term in the Keep. She would look at Theon pointedly, as if she was certain it would be his idea to break the rules. She was right, Reek knows now, to not trust that boy. To want Theon Greyjoy away from her family.

Reek won’t break her rules this time. He has no desire to.

The birdhouse hangs before him, paint worn away at the bottom, looking like an empty shell. There is nothing living in it, nothing using it as a home. Reek reaches inside.

His fingers touch a scrap of paper that is just slightly damp and grimy. He pulls the paper into his palm and out into the open air, enclosing his fingers around it.

He nearly runs back to the house, cannot believe how far the distance is, how far he let himself get away. Door closed behind him, inside, there are tears at the corners of his eyes, a fear he can’t explain is heavy in his chest. He’s gripping the paper so tightly in his hand that even his torn up, short fingernails are cutting into the flesh of his palm. But he’s back and the house is nearly silent, except for the ticking of a clock and the intermittent footsteps coming from upstairs. Jeyne, pacing in the library. The sound of it is almost comforting.

After a few moments of steady breathing, he allows himself to unclench his fist and unfold the paper held there.

_jsnow@winterherald.com_

Reek mops up the floor and cleans the soles of his shoes using an already dirty towel from the laundry room off the kitchen. When Jeyne comes down to the kitchen looking for something, he babbles some story about how Ramsay told him to clean up in here, how it was a mess. She pays him little mind aside from mentioning that she’s going to be packing for another trip back home, a weekend trip to see her parents on their anniversary. Reek nods, he imagines that for some people, those types of things must still matter.

Once she’s gone back upstairs, he uses a spare utility lighter that’s in one of the drawers by the stove to set the piece of paper on fire. He drops it into the sink as soon as the flames start curling upwards and turning on the faucet as soon as most of the paper has turned to ash. He watches it swirl down the drain and then turns his head to look in the direction of Ramsay’s study.

He would have to break in. The door must be locked when Ramsay isn’t home, and even if it isn't—he feels sick just thinking about it. But it’s the only room in the house with a computer. And he doesn’t have a phone. He thinks Jeyne does, maybe, possibly. But he is almost certain Ramsay has some amount of control over it, and would see any e-mails sent from it. So. There’s only the study. The one room in the house, aside from Ramsay’s bedroom, that he’s never been in without Ramsay.

Leaning forward over the sink, Reek dry heaves and wishes, not for the first time, that he could be anyone else besides who he is.

 

* * *

 

The door to the library is easier to open.

It’s a pleasant, reasonably sized room. He’s only been in here once or twice since Ramsay moved in, but he likes the atmosphere. If not necessarily for the books contained within, then for the wide windows that let in light in the early afternoon. The bookshelves are wall to wall and familiar, like they were plucked out of a memory and placed in front of him, like he's been here before. There are a couple of oversized, leather chairs across from a matching, short couch. A low table is between them and a lamp is positioned next to one side of the couch. The set up is perfect for a person spending her time reading there at night.

There’s also a book set on the table, fat and imposing, with a pen and pad of paper next to it.

Reek sits on the couch, right where he imagines Jeyne must based on the lamp and book placement.

He picks up the pad of paper. The first few pages have notes written on them, lists of names and scribbled questions.

 _Who would have wanted her dead?_ stares at him from the top of the third page. Reek stares at the surety of the words, a question that demands an answer.

He sets the pad of paper down and picks up the book.

It looks to be some kind of mystery or thriller about a woman who was killed, which slows Reek’s beating heart. Jeyne is simply collecting her thoughts about a book that she’s reading, not theorizing on who may have killed Sansa Stark.

He flips through the pages of the book briefly, the pages thick between his clumsy fingers. He can’t imagine filling his head with a story like this, even as a distraction. He sets the book down again, trying to place it at just the right imperfect angle that it was set at before. Then he stops. There’s a folded paper sticking from the back of the book. It seems impossible. Two messages for him in one day—he would never be so lucky. Still, he pulls the paper from the back of the book carefully and then unfolds it as quietly as he can.

 _Theon_ , it starts, which is all wrong, uncomfortable and ugly and not his _name_ , but he keeps reading. _I know who you are. Sometimes I think I know better than you do. Is that a strange thing to say? I know why I’m trapped here, but why are you? I can think of no other way to ask you, and no other way for you to answer. He’s horrible, Theon, don’t you know? Please write back when you see this. Jeyne._

Reek’s immediate reaction is to pocket the note and show it to Ramsay. It would be easier to handle that way, a problem for Ramsay to take care of rather than a situation where he has to make a choice in what to say. It’s so much simpler to say nothing at all. Ramsay might even reward him, somehow. It’s been a while since he’s been kind in his own particular way, but that doesn’t mean it will never happen again. This could be the way to turn the tides back in Reek’s favor.

But something stills his hand. He’s not sure what it is, except for the overall oddness of the day. He feels buoyed by his trip outside, brief though it was. There must be some lingering adrenaline left, some small remnant of bravery stuck in his veins. He has to use it while he has it, because he knows it will be gone soon. _Sneak_ is already creeping up his spine and around his neck, whispering in his ear.

He flips the pad of paper to the nearest empty page and picks up the pen.

 _My name is Reek_ , he writes. _I don’t know what you think you know about me, but it must be wrong. I’m not trapped here, I’m welcome. It’s the only place I’m welcome. There’s nowhere for me to go, and I'm not sure there ever was. If you think you’re trapped here, then that’s fine, but I know that I’m NOT._ He nearly scratches the paper through on the last word of the sentence, tracing it over and over again before moving on. _Jeyne, you can’t mean that he is horrible. He’s not. You don’t know what he’s done to keep me safe. You don’t understand the things that I’ve done and where I would be if it wasn’t for him. I’m sorry_ , Reek starts to write, intending to make a whole statement, a longwinded apology, but after a minute’s pause he puts a period and then repeats himself on paper. _I’m sorry._

The pen clatters to the side and he tears the paper off the spirals, folding it haphazardly and then putting it in the back of the book, where Jeyne’s note for him was.

Jeyne’s note—he hesitates. He considers taking it down to the kitchen and burning it like he did the e-mail address from Jon Snow, or leaving it here for Jeyne herself to deal with. Neither option feels right, so he goes with part of his original instinct. He slips the note into the pocket of his suit jacket and turns off the lamp before leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

On his knees in front of Ramsay, Reek hopes that his eyes don’t flash with the truth of his betrayal.

Ramsay tilts Reek’s head back, his fingers under Reek’s chin, almost delicate. Reek knows that will change and he doesn’t dare lean into the touch, lest it turn bruising. Ramsay is a film he’s seen every day for the past year. He knows the lines by heart, but he’s still only a viewer. There are some secrets that elude him, that hide just off-screen. Things Reek will never know unless Ramsay tells him. And Ramsay will never tell him.

The bedroom they’re in, Ramsay’s own, is far bigger than Reek’s. It’s the master, at least twice as big with its own suite and walk-in closet. Reek imagines a world where he shares this room with Ramsay, where everything is okay. For right now, though, he’s just happy to be kneeling on plush carpet rather than hardwood floor. When they have to do this in Ramsay’s office, he can barely stand it. Here, like this, it’s almost pleasant.

“Reek,” Ramsay says, and Reek has a word on his tongue, but he doesn’t get to use it. “There’s something I want to ask you, first.”

Mutely, Reek nods. Anything.

“Do you love me?” Fingers on Reek’s jaw, a reminder of power, an unspoken threat. Reek’s latest nightmare is his teeth being pulled out while he lies awake and powerless.

“Of course,” he says, mind flashing with images of blood and secret notes. The lies he’s told, both by omission and with his own words. “Of course I love you. You are—“

Silence. The sound of a car driving past, someone gunning the engine. Reek imagines his own bones being crushed under the tires. A mercy, a dream.

“I am?” Ramsay prompts, pulling him from his thoughts.

Reek thinks of what he has done and what he continues to do.

“You’re all I have.”

He falls asleep easily, somehow, somehow, and he thinks in the moments before he does that this is how he likes Ramsay best, when it’s only the two of them, when they are both asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the book jeyne is reading is _the girl on the train_ by patricia hawkins, which is an excellent thriller with themes of domestic abuse, memory loss, and alcoholism. if you haven't read it, i definitely recommend it.


	15. they don't know nothing about redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bless him with steel.

For the first time in what must be months, Reek sleeps for more than a handful of hours. He wakes to Ramsay slamming drawers closed.

Sitting up is hard, his entire body is groggy, weighed down as if with rocks in the sea. The plush comforter that was covering him falls forward and he blinks, his eyelids heavy.

“What’s happening?”

Ramsay swears, though it’s less at Reek and more at his having trouble finding whatever he’s looking for. “They’re going to be here any second,” he says. “My father called to let me know. I’d go get dressed if I were you. They’ll want to question you, I think.”

“Who?”

“That Tarth bitch. The police.”

“Ah.”

“You know what I need you to do?”

The room is full of early morning light. “Yes.”

Reek gets out from under the comforter and off of the bed, reluctantly. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back. There was one point, before Jeyne moved in, that he slept in here every night for two consecutive weeks like some strange mercy, always waiting to be kicked onto the floor. That was quite a while ago. He grabs his things, his shed clothes, the only things he owns, and stands by the open bedroom door for a moment, watching Ramsay push things around and mutter to himself. Then he turns and leaves for his own room.

Once there, he does the best he can to smooth out the wrinkles in his suit jacket. He brushes his hair in the mirror above his dresser. He tries to think of himself as looking good, decent, normal, but knows no one would ever consider him to look or be any of those things anymore. He’s too skinny, for one, his cheeks are hollow and his clothes fall off of him like loose skin. No matter what he does to his hair, it stays looking dull and flat. His skin is sickly white, so pale that his veins are visible all the way up to his elbows. And the way he stands—his posture is horrible, all turned in on himself and hunched up, making himself look older than he actually is.

The way he looks makes him want to lock the door and never leave. The idea of people seeing how he looks even more so. Anyone besides Ramsay and Jeyne. He can’t remember the last person he saw that wasn’t either of them, though it must have been, probably was, Roose Bolton. And he never much cared about what Reek looked like.

He’s still trying to adjust his suit jacket to somehow fit his dismal frame more correctly when he hears someone knocking at the front door, a distant but distinct sound. He’s frozen, listening as Ramsay stalks downstairs, listening to the sound of the door opening, and then to the sound of people talking. He can’t make out their words.

Making a last minute choice, Reek sheds the suit jacket. He feels naked without it, but he looks more like Theon with only the button-up on. He even rolls the sleeves up his forearms, the skin there unscarred for now. He’s useless, obviously. Stupid, clearly. But he knows what would be expected of Theon Greyjoy, and it’s surprisingly easy to play the part.

“Oh, there you are!” Ramsay says, when he walks into the kitchen. He’s standing at the island in the middle of the kitchen, with Brienne Tarth, tall and stoic as ever, a respectable distance away from him.

Reek smiles a smile that feels like knives, but looks convincing, stainless steel. He's been practicing it in the mirror since he saw the press conference on television. The smile, it says, I’m exactly who you think I am, I’m exactly who you expect me to be. “Here I am,” he agrees. The talking is the most difficult part. It’s one thing to present himself in a different way, but quite another to speak differently. “What a surprise to see you again, Officer Tarth! Though, I obviously wish it were, ah. Under different circumstances.”

“Yes,” Brienne nods. “Though, it's Lieutenant now.”

“I was just telling her congratulations on her achievement.” Ramsay smiles, his favorite and best smile, the one he uses on people he hates.

“Thank you,” Brienne says, stiffly, and Reek gets the feeling that it's less a response to Ramsay’s demeanor and more Brienne’s own disposition. He doubts the woman has ever charmed someone in her life. It’s something he might have once laughed about, but now it kicks him deep in the gut. He can’t help but want to be kind to this woman, this woman who would hate him if she knew what he did.

“I’m sure you know why I’m here,” she says, clearing her throat. Reek nods soberly and, having spent a few moments standing awkwardly a few feet away from them, decides to drop into one of the tall chairs at the island. It feels like a Theon thing to do, the closeness and the nonchalance. Reek’s leg jumps up and down, anticipating the worst. “This was where Sansa Stark was living when she disappeared and both of you are likely some of the last people to see her alive.”

“Awful, just awful.” Ramsay shakes his head and Reek mirrors the action without thinking. “If I’d have known, I would have tried to make more conversation with her that night. She was a _lovely_ young woman. But Theon—he was taking up most of her time that night!”

“Wh—yes. I guess I was, um.” Reek swallows, trying to keep his loose posture as the two of them look towards him. “I don’t remember talking about anything very specific. It was all just, you know. What was going on in our lives at the time.”

“Well, that’s exactly what I’m interested in,” Brienne says. “Her family says she wasn’t involved with anyone at the time. Do you agree with that? Or do you think differently?”

“No, um.” Reek glances up at Ramsay and then, quickly, down at his own hands. “Not…necessarily. Maybe—Loras?”

Brienne knits her brow, it obviously isn’t something she expected. “Loras Tyrell?”

“Yes, I mean. It was just this crush she had. He gave her a rose once, um. Robb knows...he knows about that more than me. It’s the best I can do, I’m sorry. We mostly talked about the campaign, at the time.”

“I see. Well, there was another thing I wanted to ask you about, Theon, but I’d prefer if we could do that alone?”

Reek feels sudden, startling panic. He looks up at Ramsay, this time refusing to let himself look away. Ramsay looks back at him for perhaps a second too long, and then looks to Brienne and nods.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll be in my office. You can have…Theon come get me when you’re done.”

“It’s unlikely that will be necessary, honestly. You’ve done as much as I can ask of you today,” Brienne says, almost comically polite.

“Ah.” Ramsay smiles again. “Of course. Then I’ll leave you two to talk.” He takes the time, while leaving the room, to pat Reek on the shoulder, which is somehow one of the strangest touches Reek has ever received from him.

Alone in the kitchen with Brienne, Reek smiles his lazy, would-be charming Theon smile once more.

Brienne doesn’t smile back. “If you forgive me for saying, Theon, you look awful.”

“Do I?” Reek feigns surprise. “I really haven’t looked in the mirror all morning. I was up late, drinking.”

“You and Ramsay Bolton?”

“Yes, well. His fiancé went home for the weekend, so. Boy’s night in, I guess.”

"He—Ramsay…has a fiancé?” Brienne seems, perhaps understandably, surprised. “That’s the first I’m hearing of this.”

“It’s meant to be kept out of the papers for a while, they’re both pretty private people. You understand.” Reek smiles again, can’t stop smiling, can feel it coming off worse and worse each time, too.

“Right.” Brienne nods, looking unconvinced. “Theon, where are you living right now?”

“Oh, that’s—I have an apartment not far from here. I just stayed the night last night because I’d been drinking. You’ve seen that commercial with the dog right? It’s, um, really sad. I don’t even have a dog, but I’m like what if I did? Um.”

Reek can feel Brienne mentally checking off some sort of list of signs that something isn’t right here. He doesn’t know how to convince her that she’d be wrong about that, because he isn’t even sure how to convince himself that nothing’s wrong, and he’s been trying to do that for well over a year now.

“The thing is, we’ve tried to contact you several times the past few months by going to the apartment you supposedly live at. You’ve never been there. And when I asked the Stark family about your whereabouts and where they’d last seen you, they all said the same thing. That it was the last time we talked. Here in this house. Right after Sansa disappeared.” Brienne has taken a sharp turn for the even more serious. Before she was affable, awkward. Now she’s hard like coal, equidistant from dangerous and beautiful. “Can you see why this might be a nagging thought in my mind? Why I might wonder why that is?”

Reek stares at the countertop and silently begs Ramsay to come in and save him. He prays to hear the sound of footsteps down the hall or the snarls of the dogs. He closes his eyes. He has to remember how to do this. It used to be so easy. He breathes in.

“I loved her.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I loved Sansa Stark. I was in love with her. I—when she went missing,” Reek pauses and exhales heavily. “When she went missing, I kind of went crazy. I couldn’t come back here and I couldn’t see her family. I didn’t want to see anything that reminded me of her.”

“But you didn’t help search for her?” Brienne sounds skeptical, still.

“No, I was—I _am_ —weak.” His whole body burns with it, he deserves to have it etched into his skin. It’s the only true thing he’s said all morning. “I should have done everything I could, but I didn’t do anything. I failed her.” Brienne is silent, her tall figure clad in navy blue, her face unreadable. Reek continues, it’s all he can do. “Sometimes I feel like she died because of me. Maybe, if I’d told her—maybe we would have left together, gone home together. She wouldn’t have been alone.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Brienne says, suddenly, and that’s when Reek knows he has her. His stomach twists with disgust at himself, at violent war with the relief in his chest.

“I know, but. I think about it a lot.” He looks to the side, like he just can’t bare to look at another person. And maybe he can’t. This is getting difficult and it wasn’t easy to begin with. He’s exhausted already from the effort of keeping his head held high and his posture casual. He hopes this can end soon, please, he needs this to be over. “Um,” he says. “I’m not really sure what else I can help you with. I’ve thought about that night so many times, tried to figure out what I could have done to—to keep her safe.”

Brienne is quiet, considerate, and then lethal. “Theon,” she says, her words carefully measured. “You don’t have to stay here.”

“I’m…I’m sorry?”

“You’re more than welcome to get a ride home with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Reek says, so strongly he almost convinces himself. He pushes his chair back and stands up. He’s not Brienne’s height, not Ramsay’s either. He feels so small, but he refuses to let that matter right now. “I’ve tried to help you. I’ve told you everything I know. And I’d like to be left alone now.”

He’s not sure what he expects. For Brienne’s eyes to narrow, perhaps, or for her to pull a pair of handcuffs out of nowhere. Read him his rights. Say they found his DNA on Sansa Stark’s corpse and it’s all over now. All the things he's been imagining for a year now, and she does none of them.

She just stays still for a long moment before nodding and thanking him for his time.

Reek leads her to the door and closes it behind her. He doesn’t make it half a minute before he turns and hurries to the back of the house, to the open door of Ramsay’s office.

Ramsay is sitting at his desk, waiting, not even bothering with some fake pretense. He looks at Reek expectantly. “How did it go?”

“Fine. At first.”

“At first?” Ramsay raises his eyebrows and Reek feels disgustingly safe as his hands shake. This is what he knows now, this unpredictable man.

“Well, the Sansa part I—she really seemed to believe me about that. About not knowing anything and why I disappeared.”

“That’s good. What did you do to ruin that?”

“It was just—weird. Um. She wanted me to leave with her, she said I didn’t have to stay here. I don’t know.”

“Oh, Reek.” Ramsay is standing up and his voice is drenched in sadness, like he’s never seen something so pitiful. “She was worried for you. It’s natural. You’re a fragile thing.” He comes around the desk to stand in front of Reek and this time Reek can’t keep himself from feeling small and insignificant. It’s hard to change what he really is. Impossible, even. “I think she could probably sense that she wasn’t talking to Theon anymore.”

“Maybe,” Reek admits. “It’s hard to be him, he was…normal.”

Ramsay laughs at that and reaches out. He takes one of Reek’s hands and turns it so that the palm is facing upwards. “Oh, quite normal. You’re much better off like this, you know. I think you deserve another word. Right here.” He traces the line of Reek’s wrist, his veins blue rivers against the pale white of his skin.

“There—I don’t know.”

“Do you have a word?” Ramsay continues, as if Reek had said nothing at all. He drops Reek’s hand and turns towards his desk, reaching out and plucking an exacto knife from his silver cannister of full of pens.

Reek wants to pull his hand back. His fingers are visibly shaking. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to…cut there. Maybe…somewhere else?”

Ramsay only smiles calmly and puts a hand on Reek’s shoulder. “Sit down, and tell me a word.”

Reek lets himself be led to the chair Ramsay normally sits in, black leather and highbacked. He allows Ramsay to push him down into it, a thing with no mind of his own. This is easier than talking to Brienne in the kitchen, this is simpler than anything else he's ever known. It has to be. If it's not then what does that make him?

His vision is blurry and he can’t imagine why. All he knows is that there is something in this moment that he dreads more than anything else that has happened to him. He can’t say for sure, but if he had to guess he would say it’s the way that the flash of Ramsay’s eyes so neatly matches the reflection of light off the small blade that’s now being held to his wrist.

“If you don’t have a word—“

Reek shakes his head, doesn’t let Ramsay finish. “Bleak,” he chokes out.

“Ah,” Ramsay says. “Your future without me.”

Reek nods. Something like that, something like that. He closes his eyes and feels the first cut being made. It’s hard to stop himself from jumping at the touch of cold steel, even now. It’s partly in the way Ramsay does it, so precisely, so arduously, as if this truly matters to him. The perfection of his words on Reek’s skin. This one, Reek thinks, will be the worst. He won’t be able to hide it, not from himself. It will be smaller than the others—he winces as Ramsay cuts at an angle—but that won’t really matter. Meek across the expanse of his hipbone, splayed out like a handprint there. Weak on the curve of his shoulder, the _k_ reaching out, ugly and desperate, towards his elbow. Sneak on his back, marking the upward march of the knobs of his spine, ending at the nape of his neck.

And now bleak, small but stinging on the inside of his wrist.

He loses himself in the pain of it, so ridiculously infinitesimal in the face of everything else. But even so, the blood. It’s leaking, slow but steady, down the sides of his wrist and up his forearm, soaking into the fabric of a shirt that used to be nice, once. He feels lightheaded, woozy, his head lolling back on the chair.

“Ramsay,” he says, as he feels the cut of what must be, has to be, the last part of the letter _a_. “I’m—I need—“

“Shh, sh, almost.” Ramsay’s voice comes to him as if through a radio, laced with static and far away. “You’re being very good,” he might even say. “Very good for me.”

Reek sees darkness, nothingness on the edge of forever. He sees the world in gasping breaths of vision, the emptiness of it all. The loneliness that has followed him his entire life is a real, living thing and it is right on his heels. Something he could die from.

He opens his eyes to Ramsay cleaning the wounds on his wrist. It’s a strange sight, Ramsay with cotton balls and a clear bottle of rubbing alcohol, bandages set to the side.

“There you are,” Ramsay says, with a strange sort of fondness. Reek would never actually believe that Ramsay would worry for him, not in the way someone is supposed to worry for another person. But he believes that Ramsay understands loneliness, and that he’s one of the few things keeping the both of them from loneliness’ gaping maw. He thinks that they both have found themselves, more than once, in danger of being swallowed whole.

He watches with tired eyes as Ramsay covers his wrist with bandages with a particular type of practiced care, and he wonders.

He wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey, if any of y'all are like me and, despite the show's many failings, really appreciate alfie allen's portrayal of theon, i'm just gonna throw a link [to this](http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/alfie-allen-acting-appreciation-project) out there. it's a little project to hopefully send him some messages to show appreciation for his portrayal in the show, which i think is super cool and worth supporting. love that guy, man.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	16. don't cry over me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The glance you share with someone as they pass you a note meant for your eyes only.
> 
>  
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=poA43J1IeB4)

_I can’t call you Reek, I’m sorry._  
_It’s just too awful, I hope you can forgive me._  
_Really, I just hope you can forgive yourself, Theon._  
_Whatever you’ve done, you don’t deserve this...or him._  
_By the way:_  
_Hide the next note in_ Into the Darkest Corner _by Haynes._  
Then tell me where to put my next one.  
_We should be smart about this.  
__Jeyne._

 

 _You can’t decide whether or not I deserve to be forgiven._  
Not when you don’t know what I’ve done.  
_I need to ask you something._  
_You said you’re trapped here, but I don’t understand._  
You're different than me.  
Better.  
_Why are you staying?  
_ Blue-Eyed Devil _by Kleypas._

 

 _At first it was to please my family._  
_They set me up with him, you know, very excited to have me dating a politician's son._  
_And he was very…different when I would see him for an hour or two._  
_Charmingly odd, I guess? Maybe you understand._  
_Didn’t he tell you any of this?_  
_I don’t want to write it all out in one note, I’ll put the rest next time._  
The Glass Castle _by Walls.  
__Jeyne._

 

 _I do know, I suppose._  
_He draws you in with claws._  
_And no, he just told me one day you’d be moving in._  
_You see how it is now._  
_He goes places and doesn’t say why.  
_ Before I Go to Sleep _by Watson._

 

 _I see._  
_Well, we met once a week or so for several months and then he asked me to move in._  
_I was surprised but my family was supportive, thrilled._  
They'd been wanting me to move in with someone for ages.  
_And now I’m here…and now I think, how do I tell them?_  
_How do I tell them what has happened, and that it was, in some ways, their fault?_  
_Will they even believe me?_  
_I go home and I cry at night and I want to stay, but they say how happy I must be here._  
_I am NOT happy here._  
_Are you?_  
Before Women Had Wings _by Fowler_.  
_Jeyne._

 

 _I don’t know._  
_Some days I think I could be._  
_Other days I know I’m not._  
_But if you know you’re not, Jeyne, you should leave._  
_No matter what you say, I deserve this._  
_You don’t.  
_ The Prince of Tides _by Conroy._

 

_But if I leave, then you’ll be all alone._

 

Reek doesn’t even read the rest of the note. He wants to write a response that reads _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,_ on and on forever. He wants to die writing those words and he's sure that he deserves to.

Instead, he closes _The Prince of Tides_ and puts it back on the shelf and leaves the library.

It’s just before noon, a Thursday. A quiet weekday that makes Reek wickedly calm, accidentally letting his guard down until evening comes. Days like these are when he's made his stupidest choices, even if it's at night when he's made his biggest mistakes.

He thinks, as he stands in front of the door to Ramsay’s office for a moment, that he'll never be able to do this. Then he looks down and sees the still healing scars on his wrist.

He turns the doorknob and finds that the door is open. That gives him pause, because it seems to Reek that Ramsay would only leave the door open if he wanted it to be open. Still, he steps inside, Jeyne’s note held tightly in one fist, refusing to let go because _then you'll be all alone_.

He can’t keep writing hidden notes and cowering in his bed.

He comes to stand in front of the bookshelf that he's stood in front of on a hundred other occasions. He can’t count the number of times he’s rearranged the stories held here. By name and by author and by year of release. He’s not sure that there will be a day when he takes these books down for good, or when he turns their pages to read them. All he knows is that the book he needs is on the third shelf, second to the end, a collection of short stories about adventures on the sea. Once that’s in his hand, he makes his way to the chair he bled in and sits down there.

It used to be Ramsay's chair, but it feels like his now, like he earned it through his pain and suffering.

Somehow, it still smells of blood, heavy and thick, but he’s used to it by now. He allows himself to sit tall in the chair and pretend, for a moment, that he’s Ramsay. He puts the book to the side and places his hands flat on the top of the desk and looks forward. There are no pictures, no trinkets or piles of papers on the surface of the desk to indicate it belongs to a person, to someone. Instead, there’s only a pocket-sized date book, the canister of pens (now missing the previously used exacto knife), and a paperweight that’s weighing down nothing.

The paperweight is heavy when Reek picks it up, heavier than it looks and solid in the palm of his hand. It looks like it was carved from black onyx and it’s cool to the touch. Something tells Reek it wasn’t cheap and he sets it down carefully before turning to the computer.

He pushes the mouse just slightly and watches the darkness give way to a screen that asks for a password. Reek’s heart drops. Somehow he hadn’t even thought of this. The keyboard is on a lower, roll-out shelf of the desk and Reek poises his hands over the keys. Nothing comes to mind. He tries to think of things that people usually make their passwords. A birthday or significant date—he doesn’t know Ramsay’s birthday. The name of a loved one—Reek shakes his head at the idea.

The date book on the far side of the desk jumps out to him, suddenly. He swivels in the chair and pulls it towards him. The first handful of pages are a mini calendar and Reek flips through them until he reaches the third month and sees the first thing written in one of the little boxes. _M.T._ it says, in simple, heavy handwriting. Reek pauses and then quickly looks through the rest of the calendar pages. There’s nothing else written. He turns back to the third month and looks to the top of the page. His suspicions are confirmed—the book is from last year.

Reek turns back to the keyboard and types the date he met Ramsay into the space for the password. Presses enter and finds himself granted access.

There’s a lot Reek feels like he has to think about, but now isn’t the time. The desktop is just like the desk he’s sitting at, empty in a suspicious way, a way that makes Reek sure that there’s something hidden somewhere, something small and almost meaningless. He doesn’t have time for that, either.

Instead, he opens an incognito browser and starts to run on muscle memory. He remembers what website to go to, what e-mail address to log into (an older, rarely used one, not the main one he’s sure is teeming with unread messages), what the password is and how to create a new e-mail to send. He has no idea how long it’s been since he did this, since he even used a computer, but it comes back to him easier than he thought it would.

 _Jon_ , he types, as quickly as he can. A part of him is starting to get worried, unsure of how long he’s been in here, unsure of when Ramsay will be back. _I don’t know when I’ll be able to use a computer again, so I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know why you came here or what you want from me. All I can send you is something that you sent me once, a long time ago. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I never destroyed it like you asked. For once, maybe my stubborn arrogance as Theon Greyjoy did both of us some good._

There’s a flash drive hidden in the spine of the book of short stories, the cover of the book brittle and just barely attached. The flash drive is a tiny, little thing and when Reek puts it into the drive of Ramsay’s computer, it calls itself NO NAME and a new window pops up with a handful of sequentially named .pdf files. Reek’s hand is steady as he adds them to the e-mail as attachments.

His mind is clear, if only for a second.

 

* * *

 

 _Freak_ burns just below Reek’s left collarbone. His chest heaves as he stares at the ceiling, eyes wet and hands shaking. He thinks, not for the first time, of running to the window of his bedroom and jumping out, but it’s impossible, harder than running a hundred thousand miles in scorching heat. He’d never make it.

“Do you want to hear a story?” Ramsay says in the darkness. He’s like a spider, Reek thinks, sitting on the edge of a web. A huge disgusting spider who’s trap could only catch someone too foolishly confident to look down and watch his step, thinking until the last second that he'd be fine.

“Of course,” Reek says, his voice hoarse. The bed creaks. Ramsay turning towards him, or away. Reek can't tell the difference anymore.

“I met Theon Greyjoy long before he met me, did you know?”

“No I-I didn’t know that.” Reek swallows and tastes biting copper, blood from when he cut the inside of his mouth with his own stupid teeth. He hates himself for even listening to what Ramsay has to say, but he wants to hear every word of this. True or not, he wants to know what Ramsay means.

“It was at a party. All kinds of people were there—well, not all kinds. But I'm sure you know what I mean. Politicians, businessmen, actors, their families.” Ramsay pauses and Reek knows this is who they are, who they’ve always been. The forgotten family members of powerful people. The unwanted sons. “I’m not sure what the party was for, I’m not sure it matters. No, actually! I’m sure it doesn’t!”

Ramsay laughs at his own statement and Reek joins in, weakly. It’s not funny. Ramsay is not a particularly funny person and it hurts to laugh. Hurts badly.

“What the party was for doesn’t matter, no. It was when Theon Greyjoy arrived that the reason I was there became clear. He had his head held high, he was dressed ridiculously. People whispered behind his back and I listened to them. The stories they told. Imagine my surprise—Theon Greyjoy wasn’t a great, respectable man, no. He was a mess, a disgrace. It became obvious, then, once I knew that. I saw the way people smirked when he turned away, I saw how his own father ignored him when he spoke. And yet…”

Silence. Not even the sound of a dog howling.

“And yet?” Reek prompts, after a moment. His breathing has slowed, but his heart is beating faster.

“And yet,” Ramsay continues, oddly calm, “he wouldn’t even look me in the eye when our path’s crossed.”

Reek wants to say _Ramsay_ , wants to apologize and plead with him. If only Ramsay knew, if only he realized. The burden on his shoulders then, the misplaced pride, the having to seem above it all because or else he would be crushed under the weight of not knowing who he really was. He wants to say _I’m not that person now and I never actually was_. But he stays quiet, where before he would have spoken. He’s learned that silence is often the safest option.

“My father will be here tomorrow evening,” Ramsay says and sometimes listening to him talk makes Reek feel like he imagines knowingly drinking poison would. All the way down. “He'll see what Theon Greyjoy has become, what I’ve done in this house. Like a lord, a ruler. Wouldn’t you agree, Reek?”

Reek licks at his lips and nods, even though Ramsay can’t see it. Even though there's no real part of him that Ramsay has ever seen. “Yes. Yes, he'll see. You’re right.”

Knives cutting into his skin, the things Ramsay has taken away from him like some distorted vision, a mirage in the distance and Reek can't tell if he's sleep-deprived or not anymore. It doesn't matter.

Reek will have his own words soon. A whole library full of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter. i hope you guys know...the end's comin' soon. thanks for feedback, as always, it means the world to me.


	17. when i'm through with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A house full of silence and dead things.
> 
>  
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fq84vRHAI_E)

Roose Bolton makes everyone wait, arriving late and sweeping in through a door that he has his own keys to unlock.

Reek is hidden away in the shadows of the house all through dinner. He's a ghost that only wants to watch these strange new people in front of him.

He keeps his eyes on Jeyne because she’s the easiest to watch in her stillness, her quiet. He wants to get close to her and reach out, touch her. His hand on her wrist, comforting. He wants to tell her things will be alright, sooner than later. He knows that if he were more brave he would have done something a long time ago. He wants to tell Jeyne that she’s better than him—kinder than him, stronger than him. He wants to say these things out loud instead of just writing them on paper and slipping them between pages.

Instead he stands in a doorway and listens as Ramsay tells made up sort of stories about things that Reek can’t remember ever being true. He’s like this sometime and it makes Reek want to fade back into the wallpaper just watching the unwieldy way Ramsay holds a knife and brandishes his biting words.

Roose speaks in a hushed voice, speaks so low that Reek has to strain to hear what he’s saying and still misses parts of sentences, misses whole points. All Reek knows is he’s not happy with Ramsay and _don’t know what you were thinking_ is said more than once.

Jeyne’s eyes flicker to the doorway briefly and Reek holds her gaze like he would hold her hands until she looks away. She’s unbearably small, sitting at the dining room table, and Reek thinks despairingly that if Sansa Stark were still alive they would be the same age. They would be friends, if Reek could change things, somehow, someway. They would be friends and there would be laughter in this house and happiness in his bones.

Chairs pushed in and plates left for Jeyne to clean up and no one thanks her for dinner, either, even though she was the one who made it. Glazed chicken and warm, good-smelling soup that she gently ladled out into bowls and set at the table. Her eyes are tired and Reek watches her go when Ramsay tells her to. She climbs the stairs in the distance and Reek is still in the shadows, listening to the hands of a clock tick, left alone as Roose and Ramsay retreat to the office at the back of the house.

Like all good dead things, Reek moves quietly and breathes very little. All the things he’s had to learn to avoid setting Ramsay off, to keep himself safe, he uses them now. Hand to the wall, part of the furniture, a fixture in the hallway. He listens.

“—and you think I should be proud of you for what you’ve done?” Roose is hissing, and Reek can nearly see him, eyes narrowed with anger. “I have told you time and time again how tenuous my grasp of this office is. My position is not a lifelong appointment, need I remind you. I’m only in place until someone the people like better comes along.”

“His own father wants nothing to do with him,” Ramsay says and Reek feels dread in the pit of his stomach. An oozing, bubbling thing. “I hardly think the ruination of an already ruined thing is that big of a problem.”

“Theon Greyjoy was an important part of both securing and keeping my position. What don’t you understand about that? The public and his family thinking he’s a joke doesn’t mean they’ll also turn a blind eye to what you’ve done to him.”

Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. Reek leans against the wall and wishes his body wasn’t wracked with grief for a person he doesn’t even know. Because he has to be Reek, he has to be. There’s no one else for him to be. Reek, only Reek, who has  _freak_ burning on his chest, ugly and permanent. A part of him now.

Ramsay is silent and Reek is, too. Even outside of the room, he can feel the way the walls must be bending inwards, the claustrophobia of confrontation.

“Do not forget,” Roose says in his careful, punctuated manner, “that this house belongs to me. Not to you. Don't make me rue the day I chose to call you mine.”

Reek hears the creak of leather and it occurs to him, far too late, that Roose was sitting in the chair he thinks of as Ramsay’s. That Ramsay was standing and that this office has never belonged to who he thought it did.

His mind cloudy, he makes no effort to move away and that means it’s his fault when Roose Bolton runs into him in the hallway.

“Sorry,” he rasps out, the only word he can say right now.

Roose is not kind or warm, only eerily calm when he says, “There’s no need to apologize to me,” and then he’s gone, leaving echoing footsteps and a slammed door in his wake. Reek hears a car start and drive away, but he’s probably just imagining that.

Reek has only just remembered how to breathe when Ramsay says, “I know you're out there. Come in here, would you.”

It’s not a question. These things are never a question with Ramsay, never a matter of what Reek does or does not want to do and it takes him half a second to realize he’s curled one hand into a fist. He straightens his fingers out before leaving the hallway, keeps his palm flat against the side of his leg.

Part of him expects unbridled fury, anger in the form of destruction—himself a part of the casualties. He has a million words running through his mind, all the ways he can defend himself, all the ways he can convince both Ramsay and himself that he didn’t hear _anything_. But the room feels cold like ice and Ramsay is still like a glacier, floating at sea, something Reek has long since collided with. He’s just waiting for the day when he’s sunk deep enough that there will be no way for him to surface again.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Ramsay says. He’s standing in front of the desk and Reek wants desperately for him to sit behind it, craves the normalcy of their usual positions in this room. “And I think now is a good time.”

He reaches for the date book, the one with the neatly written _M.T._ on one of its pages, and opens it to the back, pulling out a worn, folded piece of paper that Reek recognizes all too quickly.

His immediate instinct is to drop to his knees and apologize, but he stays standing somehow. Somehow.

“I found this in your suit jacket the morning that policewoman came here,” Ramsay says, beginning to unfold the paper. His actions are strange and muted, completely without their usual ferocity. “And I thought, why would he hide this from me? Reek never hides things from me.”

Completely unfolded, he takes the paper and smooths it out against the surface of the desk and then pushes it towards Reek, into his hands, forcing him to take it.

“Would you read it?” Ramsay says. Reek starts to scan the page, unwilling to let himself piece together the letters and words into sentences, and when he looks up Ramsay is shaking his head. “Out loud, please.”

Reek’s hands are shaking, but he nods. Of course. He’ll do anything. Whatever it takes.

“Th-Theon,” he stumbles flinching at the sound of the name out loud. “I know…who you are. Sometimes I think I, I know better than you do, these d-days. Is it—is that a strange thing to say? I know why I’m…why I'm trapped here, but why are y-you? I can think of no oth-other way to ask you, and no other way for you to answer. He’s…” Reek swallows, thickly, and he can feel tears in his eyes. “He’s horrible, Theon, don’t you know? P-Please write back when you see this.”

He stops, hands still shaking, and he’s ripped the paper on one edge. He's ruined it.

“Finish it,” Ramsay says, his voice unnervingly soft.

Reek stares forward, unseeing, but he does what he’s told. “Jeyne.”

“Oh, our friend, Jeyne.” Ramsay is smiling, but it’s cold, so cold and Reek wants him to stop. “Are you telling me that she wrote you this, Reek?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Ramsay draws his face into a look of mock confusion. “Well, who else do you think wrote it? Do you think that _I_ wrote it?”

“N-no.” Reek doesn’t know how else he’s supposed to answer, all he knows is that he should have burned this letter. He should have destroyed them all instead of keeping them all pressed into books upstairs. A room full of secrets that Ramsay will easily be able to decode now that he has the first piece of the puzzle.

“No, of course not,” Ramsay is saying. “Now the only question is: did you write back to her?”

Reek stares at the paper in his hands and he thinks about the words written there. He thinks about _Theon_ and _horrible_ and _please_ , most of all, _please_.

“No,” he says, “no, I was going to show you.”

He can see in Ramsay’s eyes that he doesn’t quite believe him, that he didn’t expect this answer, and Reek is frantic with fear.

“I was going to show you and then the police showed up and it—it slipped my mind. I didn’t remember until later and then…the note was gone and I didn’t know how to tell you without proof.”

“Oh,” Ramsay says, not stupid, not completely fooled, but considering what he’s hearing all the same. “It’s very hard to know who to trust anymore. But I’ve never really trusted her.”

“Neither have I,” Reek agrees, sick to his stomach, knowing the worst is yet to come. “What…what should we do?”

Ramsay’s eyes light up, bright at the slight suggestion of retribution. _Horrible_ , Reek thinks, _horrible_. “I have an idea.”

And Reek is sure he does—blood on the floor like some sick flood, tears and fear and desperation, and wherever he puts these girls. Wherever they won’t be found. Reek has long ago come to terms with the fact that it was Ramsay who told the police where to find Sansa Stark’s body, because there was no one else it could have been. He’s less sure about the why, but reason doesn’t rule here. It never has. And Ramsay has an idea in his brain.

He’s not looking at Reek anymore, he’s turned his gaze towards the open door and Reek can see his mouth moving but can just barely hear the words.

“I’ll need your help,” he’s saying as Reek closes his hand around the cool onyx of the paper weight behind him on the desk. He doesn’t look over until the last second, when Reek is swinging it upwards and his face is nothing but pure shock, disbelief, as the heavy rock in Reek’s hand hits him squarely on the jaw with a deafening _crack_.

Reek is scared—convinced, even—that Ramsay will only stumble backwards and then rise to even greater heights, but it turns out he’s human after all. He falls, tumbling backwards over himself, and Reek is suddenly someone else, someone more powerful. Scrambling to stand over Ramsay and then dropping to his knees, straddling Ramsay’s waist and bringing the paper weight down against his temple and the sound that makes is even worse.

Ramsay is swearing at him, scratching at Reek’s thighs but it barely registers. Reek has had all of his weaknesses torn into him his entire life. Ramsay wasn't the first one to mark him for his failings. This is nothing.

Reek swings again, this time at the other side of Ramsay’s head and blood splatters, warm and full of life, onto his face and onto his shirt.

Again.

Ramsay’s hands fall limp and twitching, his words aren’t coherent anymore, more moans and whimpers than anything.

Again.

Bruised and battered and, oh, maybe Ramsay isn’t human after all. Maybe he’s just meat.

Again, again, again.

Until Ramsay is nothing and everything all at once. Gone in the worst way. And Reek is above him, thinking _finally, finally_ and _no, not yet_.

And Reek is covered in slingshots of blood and gore, dry heaving sobs because who is going to love him now.

And Reek is not Reek.

And he never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure, i'm about to get a little sappy. this is the first wip i've written and posted online in quite a while (and the longest fic i've posted in general since 2008 somehow). part of the reason i had stopped posting my writing online was due to an abusive relationship i was in at the time and the fallout from that relationship. so, while i know a lot of you don't know me or know anything about my personal life, just know y'all have been an amazing support and have helped me to feel confident in sharing my writing again. i can't say how much that means to me. every comment, every hit, every little bit of it has been incredibly uplifting, and that will always continue to be the case. so you know...thanks, man.
> 
> anyway, just an epilogue left to go, and i'll be posting that in a few days time. see you then.


	18. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do we have left, in the end?
> 
> [♪](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEpMj-tqixs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warning for _very_ clear suicidal ideation here.

Half-windsor knot done by shaking fingers. Theon looks in the mirror.

His eyes are clear bur faraway, somewhere else, and he has to stop himself from tracing the scarred letters on his wrist. His skin is a roadmap to places he never wants to go again, roads he’ll go miles out of his way to avoid turning down. He wears sleeves a quarter of an inch too long these days, even in the summer. Takes his clothes off for no one and dresses only for himself.

His outfit is a two-piece linen Versace Collection suit in navy blue with a two-button closure. It's got notch lapels and there’s a pocket on the inside of the jacket just big enough for him to hide things in. His dress shirt is plain, soft off-white, and his tie is the blue of the sky in the evening, with the softest touch of darkness. He thinks the color might complement his eyes, but he’s unable to look into them anymore, so it’s hard to tell.

Two months ago he sat in a courtroom in this suit and talked into a microphone, unable to look away from his hands. His defense attorney had tried to tell him not to do that, a frustrated older man who was only there because for some reason Theon's sister still liked him enough to pay a ridiculous hourly fee. But Theon couldn't help himself and so he talked to his hands instead of the room at large, heard himself answering questions as if under water, his own voice a distant echo, the sound of some other person he couldn't even see.

Only Asha and Jeyne Poole had truly testified on his behalf, the rest of the witnesses there because the court had ordered them to be. But that was okay if only because Theon had never even bothered hoping that anyone else would step forward and take an oath for him.  Theon had kept his head down and his mind empty. He hadn't even flinched when he heard Jon Snow's voice, hadn't given in to raising his eyes and seeing the look on Jon's face. There was no way it would have been worth it.

 _Not guilty_ wasn't a surprise, it was just the wrong words. Theon was wrecked by guilt, consumed by it, had been for so long he didn't think he could live without it anymore, like some kind of addict. He remembers the worst things at night. The time when he was seven and mad at Asha for calling him names and ripped up her art project in a rage. He'd felt so bad he'd ended up staying up until three in the morning trying to tape it back together, trying to fix what he'd done.

He's always been like this, ruining things beyond repair, just stupid enough to momentarily eschew the consequences, and just sensitive enough to let his mistakes haunt him forever. All this time, and nothing's really changed.

The prosecutor had asked him if he had killed Ramsay Bolton because he was the only other witness to what happened to Sansa Stark and Theon had gaped, unseeing and shocked and, worst of all, unsure of his answer. The question is still with him today, in front of the mirror, one of those things he's always going to wonder about. This is just how things are now.

Sometimes he thinks he hears the buzz of a phone vibrating or the chime of a message being received on a laptop he doesn't own. Other times he smells heavy, coagulated blood so deeply he can taste it in the back of his throat. In the mornings he wakes up shaking, unable to breathe and at night he’s paralyzed by endless spirals of self-loathing. _I should be dead, I deserve to be dead, why am I still alive, it should have been me, please let me die in my sleep tonight_.

He’s taken apart two razors and emptied out a container of sleeping pills onto the kitchen counter. He’s thought about jumping, tying a noose, considered getting a gun. What way—he’s thought several times before—would be the best and the cleanest? What would be the least awful position for someone to find him in? He’s had dreams of drowning but there’s nowhere to drown in a five hundred square foot apartment, and he’s scared that they’ll bring him back from that. That he’ll end up coughing water up at smiling strangers, sick to his stomach and thinking _no no no_ , because he doesn’t want to be dead, but he can’t handle the unbearable weight of being alive, not like this. Not alone.

He worries that he’s going to carry this with him forever like some sickness he just can’t shake. People will say it’s been a month, six months, a year, three years, a decade and you’re _still_ not over that? But Theon isn’t sure how to get over the memories of something that's been so profoundly etched into him. Isn’t sure how to turn on the television and not flinch at shows with barking dogs. Doesn’t know how to leave his apartment after being conditioned to hide himself behind locked doors. Has no idea how to talk to people about what happened when he’s still trying to figure it out himself.

Can’t figure out how to explain the ache in his chest, the part of him that misses the person who killed him, the person who he killed.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thinks constantly and it’s an apology to no one in particular. An apology for all the blood on his hands and the way it won’t wash off no matter what he does.

There’s the roar of traffic outside his bedroom window and his head hurts. Every morning he wakes up and he puts on this suit, and he tries to convince himself that there is something better ahead. His heart beats, too heavy in his chest, like something that shouldn’t be there. And there's a sudden, startling sound, the buzzer that means someone's pressed the button by his name at the door to his apartment complex.

It's only ten short feet to the door of his apartment, but Theon walks the distance as if he's waterlogged and weighed down. He's not expecting Asha today and when he presses the intercom button his voice eludes him for a long moment before he's able to choke out, "Who is it?"

He listens through crackling static, scared out of his mind, unable to rid himself of the idea of all kinds of dead things coming back to take him away with them.

And then, "Theon? It's...it's me."

Theon is perfectly still, only just breathing, unable to speak.

"Can I, um, can I come up?"

Without thinking, Theon nods, and then shakes his head at himself.  _Stupid_. "Yeah. I'll—yeah." He presses the button to unlock the apartment complex door and then finds himself hurrying back to the mirror. He brushes a hand through his hair, combing out tangles before he starts smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit jacket. He wipes his other hand across his eyes, willing himself to keep his tears unshed.

He hears footsteps in the hallway and then a soft hesitant sound at the door, knock on wood.

Theon makes it to the door faster this time, unlocking the door and turning the knob quicker than he ever has.

He stands there, off-balance and terrified until Robb smiles at him nervously and says, "Are you gonna let me in?"

And Theon's never had any other answer to that question besides  _yes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i expanded and changed this epilogue around a lot at the last minute because i was unhappy with the direction i originally was going to take. this ending is much less depressing, if you're wondering. as always, thank you, and hopefully i'll see you next time around if i'm lucky.


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